


Five out of Thirty

by tokenMWM



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: AU, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, First Meetings, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Sex, Slow Burn, post college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 91,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokenMWM/pseuds/tokenMWM
Summary: Robbe’s new job has him feeling disconnected. From his home, his friends, and everything in his life. And he hates it—hates the loneliness and separation and the feeling of missing out—but at least it’s safe. It’s the right thing to do; financially, socially, and romantically. So what happens when he finally finds someone he can’t help but connect to? And what happens when that person lives on the other side of the country? A place Robbe only visits five days a month...
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 318
Kudos: 613





	1. A Cold and Dreary January

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Yes, this story is told in first-person narration. And yes, I understand that will be a hard no from a lot of readers. But if you’ve made it this far, I encourage you to give it one chapter as a trial. My first-person is different to what a lot of people do on here. And you may find this story is hopefully a worthwhile exception to your rule. Thanks in advance!
> 
> Hi! This is the start of what will hopefully be a fairly long story. Don't know how long yet, haven't gotten it planned out.
> 
> If you enjoy it, please kudos but also feel free to comment! I _love_ comments. Also, constructive criticism is welcomed and loved as well! Or, if you're interested, reach out to me on my tumblr, tyrusmwm!
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe's job keeps him away from Antwerp a lot, which sucks for a lot of reasons. He misses his friends. He misses his family. He misses having people to talk to outside of work. But what is he supposed to do? Just... go to a random bar and start talking to some mysterious, attractive man, and then make out, and then...
> 
> Oh.

Travel the world, they said.

See new places, Robbe, get out of your hometown while you're not locked down by anyone. Meet new people. Experience new things. Make some money. It'll be awesome.

Well, at least they weren't lying about the money.

When they offered me this job, a traveling 'Junior Research Auditor I' for a chemical manufacturing company headquartered in Antwerp, I honestly thought they'd made a mistake. Yes, technically I was qualified—even if I was just out of university with zero idea as to what a traveling 'Junior Research Auditor I' did—and yes, I had actually done what felt like an acceptable job during the interviews, but still. It was what they offered me that felt like an error.

Benefits.

A generous enough travel _per diem_ that I gained ten pounds over the first month from room service alone.

And a salary that made Jens punch my shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise when I first showed him the email.

And all I had to do was spend one work-week every month at each of our three plants across central Europe and—as I learned on the first week of the job—take notes and make sure people weren't fucking things up? No problem. For what they wanted to pay me? No fucking problem.

I didn't even complain when Moyo declared that my new paycheck meant I was permanently responsible for buying all our future weed. Barely even rolled my eyes when Milan said he was going to rent my room out as a hostel while I was gone. Once my Mama reassured me that she would be fine with me being gone so much, I was _actually_ excited to get started. It felt like such a promising start to my post-college life. Something to validate all the work I'd done in university. Maybe even a reward for all the shit I'd gone through growing up in Antwerp—a chance to escape, at least a little.

But as I sat in a drab, quiet hotel room for the third Thursday night in a row, back pressed against the headboard of my bed, illuminated only by the pale glow of a sitcom that hadn't once made me laugh... I knew the truth. This wasn't a reward. It was...

Well, it definitely wasn't a reward.

My first week on the job, Carla—the 'Senior Research Auditor II' whom I would be trained by, who would essentially be my boss—told me that I was her fifth Junior Auditor in 2 years. And I thought to myself, _'Oh, that's weird, why would anyone leave a job that pays this well—they must have all been fired or promoted.'_ Because I'm an idiot, and when the universe sends me signs I am historically bad at reading them.

The novelty wore off some time between months two and three. The overwhelming loneliness set in about a month after that.

Coincidentally, right around the time that Carla left for another job. One that let her work and stay at home with her family.

Yeah. Maybe I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. 

My phone vibrated on the bed next to me—Aaron, wondering where the fuck Moyo was and why he wasn't already at the bar—and I couldn't help the sigh that escaped my chest. Because... fuck! I never thought I would actually _miss_ going to the bar with Aaron, I thought through college I'd seen that little weirdo get drunk enough times to last me through the rest of my life. But as Jens added in his own prods at Moyo's tardiness—a number of typos evidence that he was probably already a few beers in—I couldn't help the uncomfortable flutter in my stomach. The weird ball of frustration growing in my chest. The uncomfortable burning in the back of my throat as I realized I couldn't even get mad at them for living their lives together while I was away—at least they hadn't put together a separate group chat without me. I couldn't even decide if that would be worse or better! Because those stupid texts were my only connection to the world at home even if they only made me feel worse about this shitty situation, and if they stopped including me I might as well just fucking stay away forever and—

 _Jesus Christ_ I need to get the fuck out of this hotel room.

Before I could give in to the urge to hurl my phone—my literal only lifeline to the rest of my life—at the shitty wallpaper, I jumped from the bed, grabbed my coat, wallet, and boots, and literally sprinted down the stairs, through the lobby, and onto the unfamiliar streets below.

Time to see some fucking sights.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The good thing about Belgian cities is that, even as far South as this, no matter which direction you choose, if you walk long enough, you'll find a bar. And I didn't even have to walk that long to find this one—barely enough time for the cold winter wind to seep into my jacket and put blush on my cheeks. And yeah, I couldn't afford to get actually drunk because I still had one more day of work before I went home, and the TV in the bar was still showing the same stupid sitcom I'd been watching in the hotel, and I still didn't have anyone to talk to.

But at least I could hear the sounds of other people. See other people. And convince myself, as flipped through Twitter and then Instagram, that I wasn't actually alone.

And it almost... almost worked.

Except, three beers in, I felt the urge to do something stupid. Something I knew was stupid. Something that I'm embarrassed to admit—and please don't tell Milan, I really don't want another intervention—I had done more than once these past few weeks. When I felt like... this, and I was tired, and my brain probably wasn't working at it's best.

I pulled up David's Insta and just... yeah.

And, look, it's not like I'm stalking my ex. I don't want to get back with him and I still haven't forgotten what he did to me—the lies, the cheating, the general assholeness—it's just... sometimes, y'know, it's nice to see our old pictures. The ones he never deleted even after I purged any trace of him from my social media, and blocked his number, and convinced my friends never to mention his name in my presence. The ones of us at the beach, and a big group shot in Jana's dorm room, and the crappy little Christmas twig we'd decorated together more than a year ago. It was nice to look back and remember a time I was surrounded by my friends almost constantly, a time when I felt like a part of something. Felt wanted. Felt...

Wait.

Wait—no. No! No, fuck you—I mean... 

_Who the fuck is that guy?_

So anyway, long story short, that's how I ended up sitting in the corner cradling my eighth beer, rage scrolling through one blank profile after another on Grindr, struggling desperately to find one person worth messaging. Because... fuck! If David _fucking_ Pauwels can find a new guy despite being... _David fucking Pauwels_ , then for the love of God I can use the Grindr profile Milan set up for me months ago—the one where I actually look sort of good and not too skinny in the picture—to get laid. 

And sure, I've been on a bit of a travel-induced dry spell, and sure I'd never actually hooked up with someone from an app before, and sure every gay guy in ten kilometers of me was apparently either older than sixty or 'straight' or didn't have a face, and _sure_ —

"Hey there. Whatcha drinking?"

Frustrated, aggravated, already short-tempered, I looked up from my phone, ready to ask for some privacy, when... oh.

Oh. Okay.

"I, uh..." the laugh—a chuckle, really—slipped out as I swallowed around my suddenly very heavy-feeling tongue. "What?"

There was a man leaning against the bar beside me, a curious smile on his face as he met my eye and glanced down at what I realized was the nearly empty glass grasped between my fingers. At some level, I knew what he had asked—knew the answer was the imported lager they had on draught, and also that I was at the point in the night where I should probably switch to water. At that same level that answer was fighting to make its way out of my brain and then out of my throat and into the start of a new conversation. But that didn't really matter. Not one bit.

Because, eight beers in, the only coherent thought my brain could actually recognize was, _'Holy fucking shit, he's gorgeous.'_

"Your drink," he smiled a bit wider as he scratched at the back of his platinum-blonde head. "It looks like you could use another one."

And I nodded—because yes, I could—as I took in the sight before me. The almost-too-tan-for-January skin. The green eyes that sparkled a little as he turned to get the bartender's attention. The surprisingly deep voice as he ordered, 'two of whatever he's having.' The bleached-white hair. The leather jacket, worn-in jeans, and doc martens. 

It was a look. One that I...

Yeah.

"So what brings you here on such a," he glanced over his shoulder and I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I took the opportunity to check out his body—he looked taller than me, he looked fit, he looked... _Jesus_ —while he was distracted, "beautiful night?"

Even through the alcohol and whatever else was happening to my brain, I could tell from his tone of voice that I was missing something pertinent to the question. Slowly, reluctantly, I forced myself to tear my eyes away from the face of my new drinking companion and glance out the window near the door.

"Oh shit! It's snowing?"

"Has been for a bit, yeah," he smiled again and brushed a few flakes of ice from his shoulder before settling into the stool beside me—one that had been occupied by a red-haired lady until a few minutes ago. Through the window, I could see fat, wet-looking flakes of white falling softly through the darkness. Quiet and beautiful and promising a miserable return trip.

"Shit, that's gonna suck to walk back through."

"I take it you've been here for a while, then?" He asked, nodding to the two empty glasses still in front of me. "I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

"Uh... no." Another laugh slipped out, a nervous habit that maybe wasn't so bad if it got his smile to grow like that. "Nothing to interrupt here."

"Well, that's a relief," he grinned. "I'd hate to find out your date was in the bathroom and I just stole her seat."

And I don't know if it was the idea that I might actually have a date, or the idea that it would be a woman, or—probably—just the alcohol and a sudden bout of nerves, but something about the way he said that was fucking hilarious. And I couldn't hold it in. The full chorus of laughter than rang loudly out of my chest was met with a wide smile and a fresh glass of beer taken directly from the bartender's hands. And that just made me smile even wider.

"Ah... no," I shook my head, forcing myself to calm down before this gorgeous man—who honestly had no business talking to someone like me—changed his mind. "Just me. Just... trying not to die of boredom before the weekend."

"Long week?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

The new glass of beer tasted fresher than the last one had, more lively on my tongue. Which didn't really make sense, but might have had something to do with my handsome drinking companion nodding in approval as he took his first sip.

"Work?" I heard him offer his guess, and realized that my eyes had slipped down to focus on his hands. The way they were playing on the slick wood of the bar, the way his long fingers were dancing delicately around the rim of his glass. "You look like the kind of guy drinking to forget a shitty boss."

I looked up at his face again and saw a faint trace of a smirk, a mischevious look in his eyes—almost inviting some kind of challenge. Like he was settling in to play a game. And I felt my chest thrill for just a moment as I swallowed my drink slowly and returned his smirk with one of my own.

"Oh, is that what I look like?"

"Either that, or... lamenting a loss? Like... hmm. Like your dad died?"

I shook my head aggressively, leaning back from the bar to give myself a chance to breathe.

"If my dad died, I'd be buying everyone a round. On me."

"Remind me to crash your dad's funeral, then," the myserious stranger smiled as he—and I found myself really hoping I wasn't misreading the situation— _flirted_ with me. I was like eighty percent sure he was fucking _flirting_ with me. And yeah, it was sort of dark, morose humor, but...

It worked.

"I'll make sure you get an invite."

"So what is it then? You're single, so it's not relationship issues—"

"Hey! Who said I was single?" I asked, reaching over to shove lightly against his shoulder. Just enough to jostle him as he laughed, just enough to make sure he wasn't a figment of my intoxicated imagination.

"Well, you're not on a date."

"But that could be because my boyfriend's traveling for work." I did my best to gauge on his reaction as I slipped in _boyfriend_ , because you never know, but all I saw was flash of something in his eyes as his smirk grew.

Score.

"Well, is he?" He leaned against the bar, moving just a bit into my space. Not enough. Not nearly—

Wow. How much did I drink?

"Nope," I shrugged, swallowed around the heaviness of my tongue, and decided to take the plunge. "I am... very single."

He paused for a second, hiding what I assume—what I hope—was a smile behind his hand before leaning back into his own space, his own stool, with a big sigh.

"So it's not a relationship. It's not a shitty boss. It's not a death in the family. What is it? What brings you to a musty little bar on this fine snowy night?"

"Uh... ennui?" I chuckled because even though I barely knew this guy, I got the feeling that self-deprecating honesty was probably going to fit in with his sense of humor. "Trying to feel the warmth of human contact? The inherent Belgian desire to drink? Choose your favorite."

For a moment there was a pause, just long enough for me to worry that I'd misread his humor—that I was about to be the subject of this man's pity and/or disgust. But then he leaned over the gap between our stools, shoulder knocking gently into mine as he laughed, and I felt my heart settle. There were a lot of reasons I didn't want this to end, but the idea of losing the first fun interaction I'd had in weeks to pity would have really spoiled my night.

"Well, I'm out of drugs so I can't do shit about the first one," he grinned, leaning back over to consider his beer. "As to the second one..."

I heard a deep inhale as I inspected my glass, and then before I knew what was going on, there was a hand in front of my face. Calloused on the thumb and middle finger, I noticed there was some deep blue coloration on the pad of his pinky and palm. It took me a second—probably a few seconds, probably a few awkward seconds—to realize he was holding it out in greeting. That he was looking to shake.

"I'm Sander." I looked over to see him smiling widely, and felt my stomach flutter just a bit. "And it would be an honor to provide your human contact for tonight."

"Um..." the chuckle slipped out again—fuck this is really how I respond to cute guys, isn't it?—and before he could change his mind, I reached out to grasp his hand in mine. It was warm. "I'm Robbe."

"Well, Robbe," his grip squeezed mine in a short—too short—shake before slowly pulling back to his own side of the bar. My hand immediately felt cold. "What's your opinion on David Bowie?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Well, this is me."

Never before has a short walk through the snow been such an unfortunate thing. The front awning of my hotel, boasting the name _The Falaro_ , was sagging under the weight of at least two inches of the white stuff as Sander and I strolled down the sidewalk.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were close."

Our time at the bar had been agonizingly short—though maybe it was just that time had flown by—before I had remembered that I had to be awake and functioning by seven the next morning. And honestly, I wasn't even going to mention it—deciding that it was okay to go into work exhausted every once in a while—but my checking the time had caused Sander to do the same, and he'd been the one to insist that staying out getting drunk on a Thursday was probably not the best idea.

Don't let the punk aesthetic distract you, I'd learned that Mr. Leather Jacket was, in fact, annoyingly considerate. Wouldn't even let me pay for my own drinks.

"Yeah, well..." I was still more than a little tipsy, which was all the excuse I needed to veer slightly into Sander's side. We hadn't actually discussed the fact that we'd been, y'know, flirting all night, but, well...

I wasn't going to look a gift-horse in the mouth. Whatever that means.

"Then I guess this is where I leave you?" Sander sighed, shoving me gently back to my half of the sidewalk before reaching out and swinging me by the shoulder to face him. "Is it bad if I say I don't actually want to?"

I laughed, shook my head and tried to force myself to meet his eyes as I spoke out loud the words I'd been planning our entire walk.

"You, uh... don't have to," I grinned, forcing down the way my stomach and chest were fluttering in the cold wind, "you could come back to my room."

Was that desperate? Please say that wasn't desperate.

I watched as Sander laughed. Loud at first, but then quiet and almost shy and he shook his head. Green eyes dropped to the snow at our feet as he let out a sigh before looking back up with a smile.

"You have no idea how tempting that is, Robbe." Throughout the night, throughout all the topics of conversation we had stumbled upon—from David Bowie, to movies, to zombie outbreak plans, to our time at university, to...—Sander's voice has always been loud. Confident and cheerful and sexy as fuck, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Doing to me. But as he rejected my offer—and that fucking hurt my drunk little heart, I promise—there was a quiet, surprisingly eager wistfulness behind his words. Just enough for me to pick up in my drunken state. Just enough to make it obvious that this wasn't a rejection of _me_.

"Then do it," I whined, which is something Sander had reduced me to twice during our time at the bar. "C'mon, it's nothing special, but..."

"Oh, I'm confident it would be very special," His grin flashed devilishly before he ultimately shook his head and took a half step back—dashing my hope of ending my dry spell and ending it with _Sander_. "But you, Mister..."

"IJzermans."

"Mr. IJzermans, you are drunk. And it's midnight, and we both have work tomorrow. So, no," he let out another sigh and I felt this overwhelming desire to fall into his chest that I was just barely able to hold off. "This is where I have to leave you. But, uh... I can offer you a parting gift."

"Oh, yeah?" I perked up.

"Mhmm," I watched as he bit at his lower lip, and... fuck. I wanted him. So fucking bad—what the fuck is happening to me? "Any chance I could get your number?"

"Yeah, I, uh..." I dug into my pocket, unlocking my phone and clumsily handing it over. Within a few moments, we both had the other's name in our contacts, _Sander Driesen_ with a number that I was very eager to try out.

"Awesome."

"So that was my gift?" I asked, doing my best to infuse every word with as much disappointment as possible.

"Oh, most definitely not."

"Then what—"

I felt lips on mine before I even knew what was happening. Warmth and pressure that sent an immediate bolt of electricity down my spine as I froze—stock-still for just a second. And, holy shit. _Holy shit_ , the explosions going off in my gut, in my chest, across every square inch of my skin, I...

This was not just the alcohol.

Before he could pull back, before he could think I wasn't receptive, before I could even really think, I pushed back. I leaned into the kiss, pushing myself to my toes and bending my neck to get more. More of Sander, more of his lips, more of the scent of his shampoo, more of the feel of his leather jacket pressed against my chest, more, more, more... I felt Sander's hands move up, their warmth and softness tracing up my side to cup at my jaw, their delicacy tangling into the hair at the base of my neck. Drawing out a shiver of pleasure that coursed through my body in an instant that lasted an eternity. Listening to instincts I hadn't used for half a year, I reached out to wrap my hands around his waist, to pull him closer, to back myself against the wall of the hotel and drag him with me. To feel him pressed against me, pressed into me, to—

"Are you sure you don't want to come upstairs?"

"Fuck..." it was practically a growl, almost an invitation, and _fuck_ I wanted more, but—"You're going to fucking kill me, IJzermans."

"If I promise I'm not a serial killer will you come up?"

"Robbe..."

"Don't act like you don't want to." I grinned, leaning forward to capture soft lips in another blistering kiss. "Please say you want to."

"You have no idea how bad I want to," and with a groan of effort, he tore himself away. Looking down at me, face flush and somehow short of breath, I couldn't stop my mind—didn't want to stop my mind—from imagining what he would look like after a night in bed. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

And for a moment, my heart thrilled. My brain prepared itself to supply the answer of _'going to dinner with you.'_ Filled itself with the joy of _'this is actually going to happen.'_ Got excited at the idea of starting something new. With Sander. Because _fuck yeah_.

But then the door to the hotel opened, a uniformed security guard walking past with a loud yawn, and the moment passed in silence. Because, no. Remember? This isn't the universe where I get the reward. This isn't the universe where I get that.

"Uh..." the uncomfortable laugh escaped my throat for one last time that night as I shook my head softly. "I won't be here."

"Crap. This weekend?" Sander asked, undaunted. Because, other than realizing we both had to be at work the next day, we had never actually discussed what either of us did. Too busy chatting about songs and movies and how long he'd been bleaching his hair white. The fact that I'm a traveling Junior Research Auditor I never came up.

The fact that I didn't live in this city just... never came up.

"I um... I won't be here."

"Oh. Um... okay. I mean—"

"I'm sorry Sander," as much as I wanted to, I held back the urge to curse— _fuck_ you have no idea how much I wanted to pretend that I could just go to dinner with him over the weekend. "I should have said. I... don't live around here. I'm here for work, I... I go back to Antwerp tomorrow."

"Antwerp?" It happened again, his voice—soft, wistful. Soul-crushing. Almost laughing in disbelief and desperation; want and disappointment. "So, are you ever coming back or is this a one-time visit?"

"I am," I nodded, eyes tracing the fat flakes of snow falling through the air as I swallowed thickly around my tongue, because... "but not 'til next month."

"So, like..."

"The third week of every month," I sighed, leaning my weight against the wall of the hotel. I hadn't noticed during the kiss, too distracted to care, but the rough stone felt freezing, even through my jacket. "I spend the first two weeks in other cities, third week here; weekends and whatever's left in Antwerp."

A moment of silence passed, the kind of silence you can only ever hear when the air is still and full of snow. I could feel my breath catching in my chest as Sander sighed, as those green eyes that had been bright all throughout the night became muted and his shoulders sagged. I watched silently as the snow settled almost-invisibly into hair that I just wanted to track my fingers through. Stayed quiet as he looked up again before walking over to lean on the wall next to me. Felt a bit of his warmth flow into me as he pressed against my side and kicked at the snow building at the base of the wall.

Is it crazy that after one night—a few hours, really—I almost wanted to say 'fuck it,' and never go back home? That's crazy, right? That has to be the alcohol.

"So five days a month?"

I nodded. It was all I could do. Because now I had a brand new reason to wish that this stupid schedule wasn't my reality and it was too much to say any of that out loud.

"Well shit." I felt him shake his head beside me. Felt him twist his arm until it was linked with mine and our hands just seemed to fall together. Like it was natural. Like they were meant to fit into one another. "That's gonna suck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you like the start of this! My hope is to continue this, going one month at a time, and explore what their relationship was like if what caused struggles was time and distance! Also, there's definitely going to be sex, and there's definitely going to be angst.
> 
> So, anyway, tell me what you think. Tell me if you want me to continue with February.
> 
> And, look, I know. Belgium isn't actually that big, and with the wonder of the European train system something like this honestly might not be a big deal, but we're all gonna pretend that this is a version of Belgium where trains suck and the North end and South end feel like they're super far apart.


	2. Leap Year: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a month since Robbe has seen Sander. Will the reality live up to the way his brain remembers their first night together? What does Sander have planned for the two of them? Will this be the best not-a-date ever? (tw: food (section 3 of this chapter))

During my last work week in Antwerp, in between filing reports and catching up with my friends and trying to do all the things that require you to be available in your home town from Monday through Friday, my friend Yasmina asked me a question. Obnoxiously pragmatic, she took one look at my exhausted, probably forlorn face—made worse by the gum pain from a dentist appointment—and asked me why I hadn't just quit yet.

And there were the reasons I gave her that were true: that the money really was that good; that, if I didn't stay at least a year, I had to pay back the signing bonus in full; that, if I kept saving, pretty soon I'd have enough to hire a private home nurse to take care of my Mama the next time she had a really bad episode—instead of having to commit her to an institution again.

And there were the standard lies: that it really wasn't that bad; that I was happy just to be making money in my field of study; that it would only take making it to one promotion to have more money and less travel. Though, based on the look she gave me, I don't think she believed any of those.

What I definitely didn't tell her about was the mysterious man with snow-white hair and lips like fire who was waiting for me in City Number 3. The one I had made a promise to. Because that was, of course, a ridiculous thing to mention. And the rational part of my brain recognized that fact. Knew that making out with a guy from a bar didn't actually mean anything. Understood that Sander's number would likely sit unused in my phone, and that a guy like him probably met so many incredible, attractive people at bars and clubs that he'd forgotten my face two days after I left.

Forgotten about me. Forgotten about the third week of the month.

After all, it wasn't like we'd been texting. No late-night calls when I couldn't sleep, or sexy photos to keep me awake. I wasn't some... lovesick puppy. There was just a part of me that wanted to see what would happen, even if I was pretty sure the answer was going to be nothing. Nothing at all. And nothing to get my hopes up for, even if it wasn't nothing. Just call it friendly curiosity.

Which was pretty easy to believe all the way up until the Monday I woke up in City Number 2 to find out that, sometimes, a notification on your phone can be more energizing than coffee ever could.

 **Sander:** _so when you say the 3rd week of a month what do u mean?_

In my freshly awoken mental state, it took a moment—and, admittedly, an actual cup of free hotel coffee—before I felt ready to respond. I had to really think my answer through as I typed it out on the walk to work. Because that first message is always the most important. And if I wanted to keep up a fun, y'know... flirty tone, then my reply had to be just right.

 **Robbe:** _what do you mean, 'what do i mean'?_

Did I mention that I am a flirting genius?

Okay. So maybe I just didn't understand what he wanted to know, and I wanted to keep the conversation going without waiting too long. And maybe it wasn't the most flirtatious response—and maybe in the morning, I'm a little bit brusque. But it got a response. So... mission accomplished?

 **Sander:** _months dont always start and stop on a weekend how do you define the third week when it starts on a wed?_

 **Sander:** _like this month is a bad example but look at april or may. how does it work then?_

I admit, I had to stop myself from opening the calendar app and scrolling forward a few months. But I did stop myself. Because that was sort of an aggressive, surprisingly forward-looking question for a random bar hookup, right?

 **Robbe:** _why are you doing looking all the way at April and May?_

 **Sander:** _dont worry about it. how do you define the third week?_

And clearly Sander didn't yet know this about me, but 'don't worry about it,' is just about the _last_ thing he wanted to say to me to get me to back off. 'Don't worry about it' was what led me to finding out that Moyo and Noor were dating. 'Don't worry about it' was how I discovered that my piece of shit father was about to have another kid with his second wife. 'Don't worry about it' meant there was a game to be played, and that was a game I planned on _winning_.

 **Robbe:** _answer my question and i'll answer yours..._

 **Sander:** _how did i know you were going to be difficult about this?_

 **Sander:** _fine, how about this question then. how do you feel about parties?_

I smiled. Couldn't help myself. Didn't matter that I was sitting at a bus stop, in the cold, eating a packed lunch I'd picked up from a nearby convenience store. I just... smiled.

 **Robbe:** _depends on the party. children's birthday, no. just about anything else, im in. why?_

 **Sander:** _because next week has decided to suck, and the one night i dont have to do something for work i promised a friend id go to her party_

 **Sander:** _whats wrong with childrens bday parties?_

 **Robbe:** _too little alcohol and too many clowns. you know you still haven't told me what you do for work._

 **Sander:** _ill tell you when i pick you up for the party on wed._

 **Robbe:** _wow. someone's presumptuous._

 **Sander:** _you did say you were 'in'. should i cancel your rsvp?_

My smile grew wider. I knew he was laying out the bait for me. Part me wondered how he would respond if I told him that I actually didn't want to go to the party. I mean, obviously he couldn't be expected to just drop his friend like that, but would he play along? Or try to tempt me? Jesus, I had almost forgotten how much fun flirting could be.

Unfortunately my lunch was almost up and I didn't want to leave on a bad note.

 **Robbe:** _i'll see you on Wed._

And then I put my phone away, because I only had about two minutes before Mathias, my new Senior Auditor, started giving me shit. Which is why I didn't see Sander's response until the very end of the day. Until I was was walking back to my lonely hotel, trying to imagine what my friends were getting up to.

 **Sander:** _ill pick you up at 7_

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The days absolutely crawled by as I waited for that Wednesday to arrive. All due to my brain being ridiculous—every time I'd catch myself daydreaming, I had to remind myself that it was stupid to get my hopes up for anything more than an awkward night at a party surrounded by people I'd never met and likely never would again. It's just—I couldn't help myself. And my brain clearly wasn't interested in listening to logic, too caught up in fantasies of white hair and leather jackets and finally, _finally_ ending this months-long drought with an absolutely mind-blowing night of sex.

My subconscious was very confident about that last part.

The only thing that kept me sort-of-able to focus on my work was the fact that our radio silence never reestablished itself. Texts from Sander became a common, very welcome occurrence. At least one per day. What kind of food was I open to eating—which led to a conversation about my bad habit of fast food and hotel room service. What did I know about City Number 3—both my answer of 'nothing' and my insistence on calling his hometown 'City Number 3' got GIF's of someone shaking their head, ashamed. Did I have any requests for the party playlist—other than Bowie, because Sander, of course, had that covered. I quickly learned that he was not fucking around about his Bowie obsession.

And chatting like that? It was nice. It was fun. It made me a bit more confident that Sander wasn't just a fuckboy trying to get laid. And it was a godsend during a week when my friends were apparently too busy to use our group chat. I mean—yes, I know that I can always call up Jens, or Noor, or my Mama if I need to chat. I get that. Everyone back in Antwerp has made it very clear that they love hearing from me even if it's just because I'm bored. But you have no idea how relieving it feels to have someone to talk to who in no way made me feel like I was missing out on my own life. Who had no connection to what was going on without me, no knowledge of what I should have been doing. Just wanted to text about how the couple he saw putting American BBQ sauce on their fries were monsters, and then try to egg me into a debate about cats vs. dogs. No history, just... nice.

And it only got me in trouble once for being on my phone in the lab.

Unfortunately, it kept giving that stupid, illogical part of my brain ammunition. Opportunities to poke and say _'hey, dumbass, he's trying to get to know you better—and not in a dumb inuendo way.'_ A mental voice screaming at me every time he mentioned Wednesday that, _'this is looking more like an actual date every damn day!'_ Just stupidity like that.

Luckily, I knew better than to let those thoughts take hold. Because no matter what my brain wants me to believe I'm not an idiot. And there's no reason to let my subconscious ruin something so obviously fun and low stakes as a hookup with a guy who lived on the other side of the country. All I needed to do was make sure I didn't get so caught up in my own fantasies that I ended up embarrassing myself. If I could accomplish that, then there was no reason this couldn't end up being a really nice... something.

Friendship. With benefits, hopefully.

Unfortunately, after a week and a half of time crawling at a snail's pace, once Wednesday actually arrived it was like the day couldn't move fast enough. Work was so busy, it was like I looked down at 10 and by the time I looked up again, it was nearly 6. I barely had enough time to get back to the hotel and shower, much less mentally prepare myself for what was ahead of me. Dinner. A party.

Sander.

Definitely didn't have time for the calming drink at the hotel bar I'd been planning on. No cooldown nap to shut up my subconscious. Oh no. I'd barely stumbled out of the elevator when I got the text. Hair still damp, jacket unzipped, and one hundred percent not prepared to feel my phone go off with the perfectly innocuous message. 

**Sander:** _here_

Shit. Okay. Deep, calming breaths.

I'll admit. There was a part of me that had spent the week pondering just how drunk I'd been the previous month. That looked back on my memories of that unexpected night and the hangover the next day and thought, _'nah... there definitely had to be a beer-goggles situation going on.'_ Because, y'know, there had been no exchanging of pictures in the interceding weeks. And, if you ask my friends, I maybe... kind of have a tendency to overexaggerate things in my own mind. So, when I stumbled into the lobby still feeling a bit unprepared, there was a part of me that was expecting—maybe even hoping?—that what I'd be met with would be a bit more... average than the figure that held a spot in my slightly-fuzzy memory.

And, well...

Apparently I hadn't been as drunk as I'd thought.

And that's all I'll say on that.

There was an awkward moment as I stood there where it seemed like neither of us was quite sure what to do. Should we shake hands? Hug? Kiss? I, personally, wouldn't have been too opposed to jumping back on the elevator and giving him a private tour of my hotel room. But then Sander's face broke into a smile, and I scratched at the back of my head with a slightly smaller smile, and the air in my lungs grew less heavy, and then, like a sigh, the moment passed.

"Damn," Sander took a step back, shamelessly echoing exactly what was going through my mind. "You clean up good, IJzermans."

I decided to ignore the blush that immediately warmed my cheeks, the shiver that ran down my spine at the way his mouth formed my last name—unexpectedly warm and unquestionably hungry—opting to shove at his shoulder instead.

"Says the guy who looked like a high school punk the last time I saw him." Any tightness I'd felt in the back of my throat quickly dissipated as he laughed. Sander was dressed in jeans that looked almost new and very form-fitting, a thick knit sweater over a shirt with a collar, and a jacket that looked both expensive and warm. Almost professional if not for the combat boots and hair, which had grown out enough to show some dark brown roots. Still, he looked annoyingly more stylish and more comfortable than the nice dress shirt and jeans I was wearing under my favorite jacket. "I was sort of hoping for a mohawk."

"I mean, if you really want a mohawk, I can show you some pictures from a few years back over dinner," he grinned, taking a few steps back toward the hotel doors. "Gotta warn you, though. It wasn't pretty."

"Uh..." With a laugh and a shake of my head, I followed Sander into a night that was thankfully temperate for the middle of February. "I mean, I'm not complaining—though yes, please show me. But next month should I expect something fancier? A tuxedo? Because if so, I'll have to order a rental." 

"Next month, hmm?" He let out a laugh and my heart echoed with it. "I mean, normally I rely on the leather jacket to seem interesting until at least the third date, but Zoë made some very strict rules about my wardrobe for the reveal tonight. Something about looking respectable?" he shrugged and I ignored the rush I felt at hearing the word 'date' tumble out of his lips. Because, obviously, 'date' was just the best term for what we were about to do. It wasn't, like, a _real_ date. Obviously

We both knew that.

"Zoë? Is that your friend who's throwing the party?" I asked, trying to push through the warm fog that was suddenly filling my head. Softening the edges of the world as Sander nodded and continued walking.

"Mhmm. Well... yeah. The reveal."

"The... what?"

"I'll explain over dinner," he looked over his shoulder with a grin, turning to walk backward as he continued to lead us to a destination only he knew. There was something to the look in his eyes. Something happy and playful and excited in a combination that made it hard to do anything other than nod and smile in return. Even if I did roll my eyes at pointless mysteriousness.

"Fine," I shook my head, jogging a few steps to catch up. "Then tell me, Mr. Driesen. What's for dinner?"

"Well that depends," he spun around, bumping into my shoulder as he righted himself beside me. "What's your opinion on Ethiopian food?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"So that," Sander reached across the table, placing his phone next to my plate with a comfortable, enjoyable pride, "was my second year of University. There was this guy in my figure drawing seminar—I don't actually know his name because everyone just called him Mohawk Steve—who obviously had a, y'know, a mohawk. But like... huge. A foot tall at least. To be honest, it made it super difficult to focus on whoever we were supposed to be drawing. It was just so damn... magnificent."

I looked down at the picture that had been placed in front of me. Four guys and one girl, all with heads shaved and gelled into mohawks, all huddled around a man with absolutely the largest spikes of hair I'd ever seen running down the center of his head. Impressively large. And there was Sander, standing on his left with an arm slung around the central man's shoulders, looking—despite his protests to the contrary—surprisingly good with a bright blue mohawk. 

I mean, personally I preferred the white, but apparently Sander could fucking pull off whatever look he felt like trying. Sexy bastard.

"Holy shit!"

"I know, right? So one day word gets around the Mohawk Steve is planning on getting rid of the mohawk, and when he confirmed the rumors, we were all just fuckin' devastated. So a bunch of us got together and the day before he shaved it, we surprised him by showing up like this!"

"No way!" I laughed, taking a closer look at the picture. At the way some of the hairdos were clearly better put together than others. At all their smiles. At how full of energy Sander's eyes were. "How long did you keep it?"

"Do you have any idea how much work it is to style a mohawk?" Sander laughed, pausing to shake his head and take a small swig of his beer. "I wanted to do it for a month, and then two days into actually living with it and I was like, 'fuck no!' Shaved it off and started from scratch."

"Is that when you went white?"

"Next was black," he shook his head, reaching over to quickly flip through a few pictures on his phone. I watched as he flipped through snapshots of parties, him with friends, a girl pressing a kiss to his cheek, him shirtless at the beach—very nice, by the way, for the half-second I got to see it—all with black hair until finally a picture of him with white hair in front of a Christmas tree settled on the screen. "Black for a few months, _then_ white."

"I always wondered what I'd look like as a redhead," I ran my fingers through my hair, puffing it out as Sander watched me with an appraising smirk. "Or blonde!—when I was in high school, I had long hair, and seriously? I would have looked like the fuckin'... the Dutch Boy!"

"No shit. Can I see?"

"Not a chance," with a laugh that tumbled gently between us, I shoved his phone back across the table. "I want this," I motioned at my face, "to be the only image you have when you think of me, thank you very much."

"Awww. Is someone ashamed of his teenage choices?"

"Yes!" I shouted into his friendly laughter. "For good reason! Trust me. Teenage Robbe was a mess."

And fuck if that wasn't the truth. Noor frequently liked to remind me of the bad decisions I made when we were younger. Especially the whole, 'pretending I'm straight, let's date' thing. Never gonna fucking let me live that down.

"Fine. Fine!" Sander laughed as the waitress approached with a large platter of steaming food. "I'll just get you to show me later."

"In your dreams."

"Mhmm."

We paused our conversation for a moment as our food was placed between us. As Sander gave me some very suspicious looks across the table, our sleepy-looking waitress explained what each of the vibrantly colored curry-stew-like-things portioned around the tray were, as well as how we were supposed to eat with our hands and the rolled-up sort-of-flatbread on the side. And despite having never seen a meal quite like this, when she asked if we had any questions I just shook my head.

"So do you come here often?"

I watched as Sander eagerly tore off a chunk of the flatbread and used it to scoop up a chunk of a dark red chicken dish whose name I'd already forgotten.

"Nah. This is my first time," he answered with a smile and a quick shrug before messily shoving his bite into his mouth. Leaving a smudge of spicy-looking red at the corner of his lips that momentarily sent my brain down a very... exciting path.

Ahem.

"Wait, what?" Much more cautiously, I tore off my own chunk of flatbread. It was in interesting texture, more spongey than I'd expected, but pliable enough to easily grab a bite of the bright yellow lentils that were closest to me. "How'd you even know what to order?"

"My roommate Senne suggested it. Zoë dragged him here once after insisting he needed to broaden his cultural horizons. He said it was good." He nodded, looking at me with an expectant smile, and I realized that I was still holding that first bite in the air a few inches in front of my mouth. "Actually he specifically said it was delicious but would be a horrible place to bring a first date. And honestly, how was I supposed to say no to that?"

There it was again. _Date_. And there my heart went, pounding against my chest for just a moment as a shot of adrenaline coursed down my spine. And there was Sander's smile—and, fuck, he fucking knew exactly what kind of rise he was getting out of me, didn't he. Asshole.

Before I could say anything stupid, I shoved my mouth full of the hot, slightly tangy yellow lentils. I forced myself to focus on the flavor, on trying to decide if it was at all familiar, trying to determine if I actually enjoyed the taste. Let my tastebuds form an opinion that wasn't colored by the spine-tingling pleasantness of the man smiling at me from across the table. And you know what?

Turns out I like Ethiopian food.

I mean, I know nothing about Ethiopian food, so, for all I know, it was less authentic than the Chinese takeout place down the block from my apartment. And there's a chance I was just happy to be eating something other than a crappy burger. But I tried all seven samples on the platter Sander had ordered for us, and there was only one that was just a bit too spiced for me. It was all delicious. Even the weird spongey bread. And it was fun. Definitely unlike any other date I'd ever...

Any other not-a-date I'd ever been on.

Like the conversation, the ease with which it flowed from one topic to another, was unlike any other... yeah. From stories about the worst wipeouts I ever had while skating, to the time that Senne guy intimidated the obnoxiously loud neighbors in their apartment building, to the fact that we both hated studying History. There were no awkward pauses, no lulls that made me want to run back to my hotel. When there was silence, it was comfortable. And soft. And filled with smiles that made me feel like some kind of giddy school girl.

I mean—I guess I don't really know what I'm saying other than... it was nice.

"Okay," I swallowed down the last bite of chicken dyed red with a sweet, spicy sauce, "can you please tell me about this party before I do something stupid to embarrass myself?"

"I mean... I could. But I sort of get the feeling you're very attractive when you're flustered, so I'm just gonna let you loose and see what you end up doing."

"Sander!"

"What!" He shook his head, letting out a laugh as I fixed him with an incredulous stare.

"Cut the shit!" My own laughter cut through my attempt at a serious demand. "You promised."

"Yeah, yeah. And Sander Driesen always keeps his promises." Settling back into his chair, he called over our waitress—who looked even sleepier than when we'd arrived—giving her his card before I could even get my wallet out of my pants.

Bastard.

"Fine. So, yeah—I guess first things first. This is less a... party-party, and more of a work-event-party." Sander leaned across our now cleared table, ignoring my glare as I silently swore to myself that I would absolutely be paying for our next... not-a-date. I mean. Assuming we had one. "I mean, it should still be fun, but don't expect, like... a rager."

"Wait, seriously?" I leaned back, watching as Sander nodded and played with the condensation on his beer. "Okay, fuck—what do you do for work that has you going to events at... eight-thirty on a Wednesday?"

"Actually it started at eight," he shrugged, suddenly demure. "But yeah, actually I uh... I run a non-profit art foundation. Well, co-run it with Zoë. Focusing on supporting and uplifting local artists, street artists, designers... tonight is the reveal for a big mural one of our artists did in the city center."

I watched as Sander's posture shifted slightly as he continued to lean over the table. His shoulder's dropping and his eyes sharpening as he looked at me with an... eager but still soft smile. Staring at me as if he was waiting for a response or interruption. I couldn't tell if he was hoping for me jump in with disbelief, or amazement, or what. I just...

"That's... you run your own non-profit?"

"Yeah! Well, Zoë runs the business side of it. I'm the creative—I would seriously be royally fucked without her." He shook his head, but I saw his smile grow a bit wider. A bit fonder. "I mean, it's sort of new. We're still building things up—this is actually only our third big project reveal. But... yeah."

He was excited, even if he wouldn't say it. His fingers were still dancing up and down the condensation of his bottle, and there was jitteriness to his movements that contrasted starkly with the relaxed cockiness he'd been exuding all night. It was remarkably easy to read—he was remarkably easy to read.

Two nights, and he was remarkably easy to read...

"Dude!" I internally cringed at my use of the word 'dude,' but carried on anyway. "That's amazing! Seriously?"

I mean, fuck! But also, way to make me feel like an underachiever...

"Yeah," he exhaled into a quiet laugh before leaning back in his chair. "Seriously."

"And shit, things already started? Should we get going?"

For a moment, Sander didn't respond. Nervous energy no longer coursing through his body, he looked at me with unexpected regard as he leaned back. One of those moments of comfortable silence passed as his fingers traced gently along the arm of his chair and I felt—just for a moment—like I was the center. Of the world, of everything—sitting in that restaurant with my lips still tingling from the meal, Sander smiled at me like there was nothing else worth focusing on. And... I didn't hate it. I sat there comfortably as I stared back. As he looked at me until, a few seconds later, the waitress appeared as if from the void to return his card with the receipt. And then the silence passed as comfortably as it had begun.

"Yeah," he sighed, signing his name messily before shoving his chair back with a squeal. "Zoë'll kill me if I'm not there in time to speak for the unveiling. You ready?"

He offered a hand as I shrugged on my jacket and I took it without thinking, feeling the warmth of his skin as he quietly laced his fingers between mine. Unspoken, the rest of his question fell out from behind his smile, behind those bright green eyes.

Are you ready? For the party? To meet friends? Coworkers? Are you ready for the rest of our night?

Are you ready for more?

"Yeah," I squeezed his hand as he began to lead us toward the door, smiled softly as I felt his squeeze mine in return. "I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry this took so long. Had some serious writer's block the past two weeks for some reason. I knew exactly where I wanted things to go but everything I wrote felt so stilted and unnatural. Dearest apologies if any of that initial roughness made its way into this release version. I did my best to get rid of all of it.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked the continuation. I decided to split this month into multiple parts because otherwise, the chapter would get way too long. I'm hoping Part 2 will be out in a week or so. Let me know what you all want to see between these two!


	3. Leap Year: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sander and Robbe finally make their way to the party. Late, but they made it. But will Robbe finally get what he's been yearning for?

"Wow..."

I'll admit, I'd spent the majority of our walk trying to figure out what I should expect out of the party Sander was dragging me towards. On the one hand, he'd said it was a work event, and in my limited experience company parties meant something that was fairly tame. On the other hand, it was a 'company' being run by two twenty-somethings, so I was quietly holding out hope that it would be more than drink tickets and polite conversation. I mean, I knew it wouldn't be a rager—my not-a-date had made that clear over dinner—but still. 

Anyway, I was _not_ expecting the fire breathers.

"You ready?" With one final tug, Sander pulled me off the sidewalk and into what appeared to be a small park in the center of the city. It was a little difficult to tell for sure—it was a grassy space with a good number of trees—because it was pretty well packed with people. All along the edge of the space were little pop-up tents. Booths where people were selling art or asking for donations. Tables and bars with offerings of food and drink that smelled tantalizing even on my full stomach. And, as I already said, a troupe fire breathers about twenty feet away from us, lighting up the cold night sky with bursts of orange and red that reached far above the crowd's heads.

"Oh shit!" I let out a surprised laugh, pulling Sander and his unending warmth closer as a woman wearing not much more than a sports bra and cargo pants released another forest of flames a few feet away.

"You like?" I could hear the grin in his voice, even if I didn't look away from the show to see it. There was just something about fire... "Zoë said it would be too much, but..."

I loved it. Maybe more than I should ever admit.

"Definitely not 'too much,'" unable to wipe the grin off my face, I glanced over my shoulder, taking a moment's breath to watch the light from another gout of flame reflect off Sander's eyes. He was staring at the female fire-breather: impressed, and entranced, maybe even a little scared, and it made my heart accelerate in my chest. Just for a moment. Just...

I wanted him to look at me like that.

"Have I told you I know how to do that?"

"Know how to do...?" I quirked my eyebrow, allowing myself to enjoy just how quickly I'd stolen back Sander's attention as I nodded at the fiery show behind me. "Um, no. No, you haven't."

"Well, I do. Learned how to do it first year of university."

One of the many questionable things I did in a sort-of-desperate attempt to get more views on the _Broerrs_ videos that I and my favorite group of dumbasses put out. And it wasn't even the most dangerous.

Though, that's a story for a different time.

"Is that so?" I nodded echoing Sander's cocky smile as he took a step closer, slightly disappointed to find face looking less awestruck than I'd been hoping for. More mischevious. More... Sander.

"Mhmm."

"Well then..." He coughed, leaning in just ever so much closer, just enough that I could almost feel his smirk against my ear as he whispered, "prove it."

Well. Probably should have expected that.

"Uh..." A hesitant laugh escaped my throat as Sander pulled back, wicked smile, wicked stare trained fully on me. "I mean, I don't want to intrude on their act, or—"

"Oh, hey, no worries. They're my friends, they'll totally be down. Look—hey! Sam!" Patting me on the shoulder as he passed, Sander jogged over to the lead fire-breather, his sudden absence leaving me feeling cold. And a tinge jealous as he pulled her into a tight-looking hug. And maybe a little bit foolish. I mean, not that I had been lying, but I also hadn't exactly practiced recently. I probably hadn't done anything like that since... well, since I got together with David.

"Wait, Sander, I..." I jogged over just as he was pressing a quick kiss onto the cheek of the young woman holding the torch, who stepped back to look me over with a skeptical glance.

"You actually know what you're doing?" She asked, hefting the torch a bit higher and glancing down at the bottle of mineral oil sitting on the ground. Her voice was... well, accusatory seems like the right word. Disbelieving maybe a bit more correct. Combined with the quirked eyebrow that seemed to say, _'you look like you're gonna light yourself on fire,'_ and Sander's smirk as I slowed to a stop in front of the two of them, and the random guy who let out a wolf-whistle...

All I could hear was a challenge.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know what I'm doing."

I knew what I was doing.

There's a lot of things you're supposed to keep in mind when you have a mouth full of flammable liquid and a ready source of fire on hand. It's important to stay focused: turning yourself into a human flamethrower is just a bit dangerous, and even if you don't set yourself ablaze there are plenty of other things that can go wrong. Lighting yourself on fire is just the most obvious issue. Remembering the proper way to breathe out the fuel is what's key—the goal is to create a fine mist with enough power that it's nowhere near your face when you bring up the flame. And you want to be looking up. Or, at least, definitely not at the cute guy you're trying to impress. Because that's how you accidentally send the cute guy to the hospital with third-degree burns. 

Most importantly, you have to be confident. You have to control your breath, your posture, your intention. Because once you take that last big inhale, there's no stopping—not unless you want to look lame as fuck. Once you put the full strength of your lungs behind it, it stops being about that part of your brain that can't turn down a challenge. When you breathe out, and see the tower of flame blossom above your lips, feel the heat of it warm your cheeks and the light of it stain the night sky orange and red and yellow for just a moment—in that split-second before the cheering registers in your ears, it's just you, your body, and the flame—

And Sander.

Even when the world was nothing but my racing heart illuminated by a ball of ferocious heat and light, there was Sander. He was in my head, even then, his eyes filled with wonder—impressed, entranced, and just a little bit scared. I could see him even though I couldn't. I could feel him there. And when the light disappeared and the world filled back in, he was standing right where I expected. Smiling at me. Giving me _that_ look. Sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

And then he was beside me, his warmth pressing against my side before I could even hand off the torch to a pleasantly surprised Sam. 

"Well, aren't you just full of surprises?"

I don't know if I was smiling more because of his fond tone, or because I hadn't just lit my hair on fire. 

"Well, uh... I try."

He held my smile, my stare for a moment, pleased in such a comforting way. The crowd began to disperse around us, the fire-breathers slipping on jackets as everyone left to get more food and drinks, but neither of us made a move to follow. Too busy smiling, too busy staring to care. 

My heart continued to race for far longer than I would have expected.

"Too bad you won't be around next weekend," Sander finally broke the silence, smile widening as he did. "That showmanship of yours would be very helpful."

"Hmm? Why's that?" I took a step closer, voice lilting into a flirtatious tone. "You have another party that needs entertainment?"

"My mom's birthday extravaganza," he nodded and I laughed, more at the absurdity of crashing his mom's birthday party than the eager smile on his face. "It's her big leap year bash, gotta be flashy if you're celebrating four years at once."

"Oh, so your mom's a, uh... leap year baby?" I had a friend in middle school who was born on February 29th. Always complained about it as if his parents didn't get him everything he ever wanted anyway. 

"She is," he grinned. "My dad always throws the biggest party you could imagine on her special day. Always made me love leap years—it's truly absurd. You'd think—"

"Sander! Fucker—is this where you've been all night!"

Whatever private moment we'd been sharing was very abruptly shattered as Sander was nearly tackled from behind by a guy with dark hair, and dark eyes. As the two of them righted themselves, I saw that he was wearing an expensive-looking jacket with a thick scarf, and he was leveling an exasperated look as he shoved at Sander's shoulder.

"Zoë's been looking for you all night, man."

"Well, you can tell her you found me. I'm right here. Trying to convince him to come breathe fire at my mom's birthday."

"Sander..."

"Oh, is Mama Driesen looking for some dangerous entertainment this year?" The man, whoever he was, turned to look me over quickly. "If I were you, I'd accept. If only for the food. And alcohol."

"Thank you, Senne. Very convincing."

Senne. Right. Senne is... the roommate. I tried to match the man standing impatiently in front of me with the guy I'd imagined from Sander's stories, but he didn't look nearly as intimidating as I'd expected. Just sort of... annoyed.

"And they'll probably pay really well—"

"That's enough, Senne." Sander interrupted, voice suddenly, comically, strained.

"Right, so then, if you're done flirting with the performers, can we go?" Senne pointed toward the middle of the park, while I gave Sander the most incredulous look I could muster. _The performers_? And said like it was such a normal occurrence. Here I was starting to feel special. "If you're not there by the time Zoë goes on stage I'm pretty sure she'll kill us both."

"Well shit, we can't have that," Sander murmured, directing an apologetic wince my way. "But first, this is—"

"You can tell me all about it later! Let's! Fuckin'! Go!"

Without waiting for a response, Senne was pulling Sander through the crowd, not even a glance over his shoulder at me as he left. For a moment, all I could do was stand there and watch, a little stunned, mostly amused as Sander pulled out some really impressively sad puppy-dog eyes for me to laugh at while he let himself be dragged away. But then the crowd started to close in behind them, and I remembered that not only did I know no one else at the party, but I barely even knew where I was. Luckily it wasn't that hard to follow Sander's hair all the way to a small stage near the opposite edge of the park.

"Where the fuck have you been! You were supposed to go on the stage five minutes ago!"

As I arrived, Sander was in the middle of giving an apologetic shrug to a young woman with hair almost as white as his.

Is that, like, more of a thing that I thought it was? Should I bleach my hair? How much bleach and toner do these people go through on a monthly basis?

"To be fair, I did tell you I'd be late—"

"Sander! The Mayor is right over there! I have been keeping him occupied for the last," she pulled up her sleeve, checking a shiny silvery watch with as much exasperation as one could put in such a simple gesture, "seven minutes because he's here to see the reveal and as his assistant loves to remind us, 'his time is very valuable!'"

"Zoë." Ah. Zoë. Yeah, that matches up. "Breathe. Breathe. I'm here, okay? I'm ready to go. Dinner with Robbe just went longer than expected—"

"Who..." I watched as Zoë seemed to almost deflate. Energy and frustration both falling to something much more manageable. "Who the fuck is Robbe."

Oh. Well, that's my cue.

"Uh... hi?" As one, Senne and Zoë's heads both snapped up as if they were noticing my presence for the first time. Which, I guess they probably were. I watched Senne's eyes fill with recognition, then realization as I tried to stifle a smile. Watched Zoë look at me with confusion, maybe a little suspicion, before breaking out in a wry smile of her own. And then there was Sander, just... grinning happily behind them. Staring at me like I was his savior. Or his entertainment. "I would be Robbe. Sorry, I didn't realize I was, uh... making him late for something."

"Robbe," I could hear Sander's grin in his voice, "this is Senne, my roommate, and Zoë, my business partner—"

"Oh, is that all I am?" Zoë quipped, rolling her eyes.

"Zoë, Senne," Sander powered on, stepping over to wrap an arm around my waist, "this is Robbe. My..." he hesitated just a moment before pulling me a little closer. "My plus one."

I tried not to think about how many other... titles he could have gone with. How momentarily tense that pause had felt.

"Okay, okay, okay," Zoë reached out, pulling Sander and his abundant warmth away once again and pushing him toward the stage, "we can do proper introductions later. Speech now."

"Right. Yup. Can't keep my adoring fans waiting!"

As I watched Sander step energetically toward the mic on the stage, as the silence began to spread through the disparate crowd like wildfire, I realized Senne has come to stand next to me, his shoulder brushing gently against mine as he gave Sander a thumbs up.

"So you're Robin?"

"Robbe," I corrected the mistake I'd heard a thousand times. "But yeah."

"You breathe fire?"

"Uh... not often?"

There was a pause. I heard a soft shuffle, scarf scraping against jacket collar beside me while Sander readjusted the mic stand and smiled brightly at the attentive crowd. Then a grunt. Soft. Solid.

Approving?

"Okay."

"Good evening everyone!" Sander's voice, amplified by a set of speakers, boomed over the crowd, silencing with its eagerness the last few chatty guests. "Apologies for the little delay we had there. Those of you who know me well know that timekeeping is not one of my strong suits. And that neither is public speaking." A soft ripple of laughter bounced around the crowd, encouraged by Sander's apologetic smile. "For those of you who don't know me, I am Sander Driesen, and I am one half of the Local Odyssey Arts Foundation. But regardless of how well you know me, I know we're all here for the same reason. Right?"

A murmur of cheers went through the crowd. Soft and in isolated bunches, but it was enough to keep Sander going.

"You're here, supporting us and supporting our artists because you love this city. Right?" More cheers. "And because you want it to reflect who you are—and not just politically. Am I right, Mayor Mertens?"

That got a bit more laughter, a few louder cheers as a portly man in a long overcoat waved to the crowd with a good-humored chuckle from right in front of the stage.

"Or maybe you're just here to find out why that wall has been covered in tarps the last few weeks," Sander pointed behind him, and as more soft laughter—and a scoff from Zoë—rippled by I noticed for the first time that the broad side of the large building behind him was completely covered up. "I dunno. Whatever your reasons, you are welcome here tonight! I know all our vendors are happy to see you, and I know our guest star artist Hugo Coppens is enjoying the attention. Just by being here, you are doing great things for your community, and I'm sure I speak for all of us here when I tell you that we're incredibly thankful."

A solid round of applause broke out. Beside me, Senne muttered something about 'rampant self-congratulation' with a smirk and earned a smack on the arm from Zoë. But I was mostly distracted by Sander. By the fact that after taking a few moments to appreciate and soak up the applause, he had turned his stare away from the crowd to look at me. That his bright shining smile was focused on me. And only me.

"Now, I'm supposed to be telling you about our artist tonight, and believe me, there's more I could say about Hugo than we could ever have time for," Sander paused, glancing down at me for one more moment before—and I almost missed it—giving a short, nearly imperceptible nod. "But let's change things up a bit, huh?"

Beside me, I heard Zoë swear into her hand.

"Hugo, great man that you are, born and raised a citizen of our fair city, I'm not going to put words into your mouth tonight. I'm going to let you speak for yourself. I know—exciting, right? You can thank me later." I followed the line of Sander's eye to a young, skinny man in an incredibly eclectic combination of hoodies and jackets and big poofy pants. Poor guy looked very confused. "But first, my cofounder and partner in crime, Zoë Loockx, will be coming up here to tell you all about how you can support our foundation, and support the local artists we promote. Zoë? Everyone, please welcome the real brains behind Local Odyssey, Zoë Loockx!"

A string of quiet curses rang out beside me over a backing of loud applause and muted, restrained laughter coming from Senne. Then I watched as Zoë—still slightly confused and more than a little annoyed—breathed deep, swallowed down her frustrations, and climbed onto the stage with a million-watt smile as if this had all been planned. Giving Sander a soft hug—and clearly whispering something in his ear—before approaching the mic while he disappeared off the back of the stage. As she began to spin up her speech about their organization—their artists, their future goals, their relatively short but successful history—I felt a tug at the hem of my jacket. Soft, and then a little harder, and then a fraction of a moment later, before I could turn around, before I could even flinch, there was a solid warmth sitting on my shoulder. Breathing into my ear.

Just a whisper.

“Follow me.”

The crowd in front of the stage wasn’t so large that we could get lost in the people—in fact, I could see Zoë’s eyes trained on me, trained on us, as I slowly started to back away. But Sander’s large hand was pressed comfortably against the small of my back, and the questioning arch of her perfectly sculpted eyebrow was not enough to convince me to turn back when Sander pulled me ever quicker toward the edge of the park. The heat of his chest pressed against my back was a welcome reprieved from the descending cold, and—at the very least—I was pretty sure that Sander's bad decisions would only be affecting him, so...

I followed.

“What’d you think of my speech?” Once we were outside the barrier of lights and booths, Sander’s voice returned to its normal volume. And it's slightly-cocky tone. I could feel his smirk in the way his weight shifted at my shoulder as we walked.

“I’ve heard better,” I joked, reaching back to squeeze his arm just on the off chance he took me seriously. Which he obviously didn't. With a scoff he finally turned me around, let me get a good look at him once again—as if I hadn't been looking at him and only him all night—before slowly pulling me toward a nearby fence lined with construction signs.

‘Do not Enter’ chief among them.

“Well, to be honest, I was a bit distracted. There was this guy in the front row... couldn’t keep my eyes off him.”

“Right...”

Before I could complain about the lame joke, Sander was reaching down for a loose corner of the chain-link fence and yanking it back unceremoniously to reveal an opening to the darkness beyond. Then turning to look up at me with a smile, like he was offering me the world.

“Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Immediately, there was a part of my brain that screamed that this was a bad idea. That a dark ally with a guy I had spent all of six hours with—and who very well could be a murderer, y'know—was just about the most cliche dumbass thing I could do. But when the moonlight caught the white of those soft strands of hair, and that smile flashed bright as he looked up at me, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Uh... where exactly are you taking me, Mr. Driesen?”

“It’s a surprise. C’mon, we don’t want to miss the reveal.”

“You want to take me into a dark, fenced-off alleyway for the reveal?” Gently, I resisted his tug. It was difficult, I'm ashamed to admit, but I’m not a total idiot. “That’s incredibly suspicious.”

“Have I led you wrong yet, Robbe?”

His smile softened a bit as his hand slid down mine, trailing fingertips down my palm until they fell heavily into the air.

“To be fair...” I watched as he awkwardly crawled through the gap. His ungainly, practically uncoordinated movement—I tried not to laugh as his jacket caught on a stray piece of metal and almost tugged him to the ground—a stark contrast to the smooth flow of his existence from the rest of our night. “I’ve only known you for two nights.”

“Pretty sure you’ve known me for a month. Almost a month.”

He popped up on the other side of the fence, stray lights from the party reflecting off his eyes as he stood starkly in front of the darkness. Zoë’s voice, muted by distance, continued to explain their need for donations as I met his stare.

I wanted to argue against Sander’s point, continue our joking flirtations in the warmth of the party’s space heaters, but those bright green eyes were staring at me. With a severity I hadn’t been expecting. With a focus. And a need. And...

“I...”

“You’ll love it. I promise,” that severity disappeared as soon as it had arrived, folding itself into another soft smile as his fingers stretched around the links of the fence. “Just gotta trust me.”

Trust... I mean it's not that I actively _distrusted_ him.

“Sander...”

“Trust me, and I’ll owe you.”

“Uh,” I paused to glance at the signs once again. The literal warning signs plastered between the two of us. “Owe me... what?”

For a moment, there was just silence as Sander paused. There were a lot of things that I wouldn't have minded having Sander owe me. A kiss. A blowjob. Another night together. It probably wouldn't have been all that difficult to convince me to follow into a set of trespassing charges if he offered up any of those. But—

“Trust.”

And... I wasn't expecting that. My throat tightened and my whole body flushed. I could feel it. In my chest. In the fucking soles of my feet. I could taste the way he said that word. It was so solid. And I could feel it lodge itself into my head.

"I'll owe you trust."

And then I was on the other side of that goddamn fence.

The alley behind the signs was dark, littered with bottles and loose pavers and a stack of planks that we could have easily walked around, but Sander had clambered onto instead. When he offered a hand up I just shook my head and accepted it.

What was I supposed to do? Turn around?

“You’re really not gonna tell me what we’re doing back here?”

“What do you think we’re doing?” With a grunt of effort, Sander reached down to reposition a bucket, checking that it was empty before placing it upsidedown, worryingly close to the edge of our little platform.

“Stealing me away from the party... somewhere dark and isolated. I dunno, Sander. Sorta gotta assume it's either to kill me or fuck me.” I caught myself a moment too late, hesitating for a second as Sander’s eyes found mine in the darkness and I swear I saw them flash green. “Fuck with me—I, uh...”

“I mean, I was hoping to get another invite to your hotel, but if this is what you’re into...” I blushed hard as he took an exaggerated look around the dirty, equipment-filled alley.

"No!" I coughed, because I may have been a bit too horny but I wasnt _that_ horny. "No, I uh... So yeah! I mean—what's the plan? Again?"

As I asked, Sander—whether out of pity, or an actual desire to get moving—finally stopped staring at me, glancing down to step onto the bucket. First one foot, then a momentarily shaky lunge to perch himself on top of his rudimentary step. Without even thinking I lurched forward to wrap my fist into the front of his sweater, my other hand already ghosting behind his back—because, fuck! The last thing I needed was for him to fall and break his neck! Only once I was sure that he wasn't about to topple to the ground did I look up towards that smiling face, now ringed by a halo of white moonlight.

"Uh, Robbe?"

"Yes, Sander?" I could feel his warmth seeping into my hand through his sweater, could feel his firm stomach press against me with each of his breaths. Fuck. Oh fuck, I was already blushing again. I mean... actually, y'know what? Fuck it—before looking back up, I let my hand come to rest on his incredibly attractive ass.

Y'know. For support.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying this immensely—" I felt a quick flex beneath my hand and only barely resisted the urge squeeze because _not in a fucking alley,_ "—but you're going to have to let me go.” 

“Seriously?”

“Trust me."

I nodded—admittedly a little shakey, a little hesitant—but after letting myself enjoy the feeling of having him under my hands for a second more I did what he asked. Stepped back, untangled myself from his sweater, and relinquished my support. With a deep breath, I stepped away until my back was against the wall behind us.

"So what—"

And then Sander jumped. A loud clatter of metal against metal and the squealing of ungreased joints filled the air. Sending me momentarily into panic mode. Once the adrenaline stopped coursing through my body, I looked up to see what Sander had grabbed onto as he fell. A black metal ladder. Almost invisible against the night, a fire escape—old, probably long past the need to be replaced—climbed up the side of the building, ascending into the sky far above us.

With a leap, Sander had brought it into our reach.

"C'mon," with a loud clunk that echoed through my chest, the ladder locked itself into place a few feet above the ground, Sander waiting for me at the bottom. "Hurry, or we'll miss it!"

Climbing the ladder and then the creaky metal stairs up to the top landing took only a few minutes, the ever-increasing height and suspicious construction made less frightening by Sander's hand squeezing mine as we went. Then, with a quick climb and one more assist, I found myself on the roof. From where I stood, I was surprised by just how much I could make out of the city around us—the building we'd climbed was only five stories tall, but City Number 3 was not especially large. The city center splayed out before us, illuminated by street lights and billboards and the sliver of moon up above. Minimal traffic, pedestrians, and the restaurants that spilled out on the street could be seen in every direction. But Sander clearly had a goal in mind. After making sure I hadn't been injured in the climb, he carefully, almost giddily, pulled me toward the edge of the building that faced the park. With its crowd of people and tiny stage, it seemed much smaller than it had been down on the ground.

There was a new voice speaking into the microphone, male, a bit shaky and clearly near the end of his speech. Behind him, a set of floodlights had began the process of turning toward the canvas-covered wall. Moving to light up what was clearly everybody's central focus for the night. Then the speech ended, microphone feedback died down, and, for just a moment, silence fell. Just for a second—just long enough for Sander to squeeze my hand and tug me closer as we knelt behind a ledge—before a series of clicks signaled a whoosh of falling fabric, a cascade of canvas the crumpled heavily to the ground on the sidewalk below.

"Told you it'd be worth it."

Sander's smile and warm breath against my ear were almost tantalizing enough to keep me from ever looking at the mural. Almost.

From above—with no people, no equipment or trees to obstruct—my view was perfect. A twenty-foot tall field of swirling blues and greens—waves or windswept grass, or maybe even the wind itself—held up the gigantic figure of a young girl. She was falling, her face obscured by a wild whip of black hair as she fell back toward the bottom corner. Toward nothing, or everything, hidden just out of frame. There was no face to express fear, but her body was wracked with it, her hand extended toward the opposite corner in desperation. Or maybe in rejection. A single red ribbon wrapped itself around her outstretched fingers. Connecting her or pulling her or saving her from wherever she had fallen. 

To me, it would have been impressive in small scale. The sheer size of it just worked to bring the detail of the hair, the fingers, the whisps of blue and green into stark focus. 

I know... well, pretty much nothing about art. But fuck.

"It's... wow..." 

"He calls it _The Stumble_. The artist—Hugo—does." Sander leaned into my side, his voice soft against my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "He has a few other, smaller murals around town, all with the same girl. He wouldn't tell me if it was supposed to be a narrative series, or if it's disconnected, but... impressive, right?"

"It's beautiful." Finally forcing my eyes away, I turned to see Sander staring at me, smiling softly as he leaned his head against his arm. "It's amazing, Sander."

"I'll pass the compliments to the artist."

"Do you have any murals like this?" I asked, turning back to the painting once Sander's stare became too much to handle. "I know you studied art—"

"Nothing like this, no," he whispered, almost a scoff. "Most of what I did as a teen got painted over, but there's a few small things from my tagging day that haven't been white-washed yet."

"Are, uh... are any of them around here?"

I glanced back, finding Sander's stare once again and forcing myself to meet it. Even if it felt way too intense, way too heavy for the way he was leaning casually against the ledge.

"Nah... they're mostly around my old school. Too far to check out tonight."

"Maybe you can give me a tour, then. Next time I'm in town." I shrugged leaning my weight into his side, pressing against him just as hard as he'd done to me, trying to meet him halfway even as I began to feel that I was already running behind. I didn't even try to hide my smile when he shifted to snake his arm around my waist. It was incredibly cold up on that roof, but Sander was like a radiator, keeping me warm against the strengthening winds.

"Yeah?" I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. Not even thinking about it, just focusing on the touch. The sound of his voice. The warmth of Sander pressed against me. "Okay, IJzermans. It's a date."

And there it was again. That word. The word that had been dangling in front of me all evening. The word I should have known better than to grin at the sound of. Should have known better than to let my heart stutter at the way Sander pulled me a little tighter against his side. I did know that—at least, I did at the start of the night. Before dinner, before friends, before the party and the roof and the mural. I knew better than to let my heart do that stupid thing it does. But then...

I wasn't entirely sure if the way my body was reacting meant I was falling further behind or finally starting to catch up.

_Trust me..._

"Yeah," I whispered, shifting to move burrow deeper to Sander's warmth, finally letting my heart float into my throat in that all too pleasant way. "It's a date."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There was a moment there, at the end of the night, where I thought for sure that I was finally going to get laid.

We were standing in front of my hotel, again, and Sander had me pressed against the wall, _again_ , hand holding my head off the hard stone as he pressed hungrily into me, mouth dancing against mine, chest pressing me backward, a clearly and _impressively_ eager thrust of hips against hips, jeans against jeans, zipper against zipper.

And the way I felt him shudder as I moaned his name, the way he dove in even deeper, somehow, filling my senses, my taste, my touch, my smell with nothing but Sander, Sander, _Sander_... I thought for sure that I knew where the night was leading. That's why I tore myself away, forced my breath to calm down to the point where I could at least say a few words. To the point where I could extend the invitation. To my hotel room. To my bed. To me. 

Again.

I did not expect to be rejected.

Again.

"I shouldn't," he muttered, and he sounded angry with himself when it came out.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And it sounded physically painful for him to say it.

"Why?" I asked, because I was disappointed, and horny, and because two rejections was more than enough to trigger than ever-present anxiety. That I had misread the situation. That I just wasn't good enough. "We don't even have to... we don't have to do anything. I would just be happy going to sleep with you."

Fuck me... I really said that.

"No," he shook his head, and it sounded like he could barely control himself. "Next time, I promise. I promise. Trust me."

"Can you at least tell me why?" Because I needed to know if something had changed. Changed between the roof and the hotel, sometime between when we climbed down with a chorus of quiet giggles, sometime after Sander swiped a big, gooey chocolate chip cookie for us to split. Because I thought I deserved to know.

I lost hope when Sander sighed, and shook his head, leaning against me like he drew his strength just from touching me. I lost hope and felt confusion and disappointment replace it..

"Robbe IJzermans—fire breather..." he looked up at me, and smiled, and pressed a single sweet kiss to the corner of my already-swollen lips, "you're making me hate leap years."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I knew this is a few days later than I said it would be. This was a busy weekend with my sister's birthday and the super bowl. Anyway! Hope you enjoyed this, sorry we didn't get anything too hot and heavy. Promise it's coming. Eventually. Sander has his reasons.


	4. March On, Dear Boy: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe is confused and asks for help. And then he fucks it up.

Eight days after I got home, I spilled to Milan.

Sander had resolutely refused to explain what he'd meant. His parting words, _'you're making me hate leap years,'_ were followed with nothing more than a soft kiss, a deep sigh, and a promise that he would text me in the morning. Which, to his credit, is exactly what he did. He texted me in the morning, to thank me for a great night. He texted while I was on the train home to complain about having to eat dinner alone. And then the next day to tell me that he'd put together a training playlist of David Bowie songs that he expected me to have listened to— _No, Robbe, I mean_ really _listen to them, there will be a test_ —by my arrival in March. But not once did he bring up his words, or the almost desperate sadness that I'd heard in his voice when he said them to me. Not once did he explain why he'd refused to take me upstairs and fuck me within an inch of my life, even though it was beyond obvious that we both wanted it.

We did both want it. Right?

He just... went back to normal. What I assume is normal. Chatting about Senne, and complaining about waking up early for work, and a near-constant stream of flirting. And...

_You're making me hate leap years._

On February 29th, he sent me a picture. Him, surrounded by people that all had the eyes, or the nose, or the too-tan-for-February skin tone—all had a piece, or two, of what came together to make _that_ face. All had drinks in their hands and what looked like a whole field worth of people behind them.

**Sander:** _Wish you were here, firebreather._

And... I was confused. I was confused because it made me happy, but also uncomfortable. Made me feel wanted. Made me feel the pain of his rejection under the hotel awning flare back up. 

Apparently made me pull a very weird face.

"So I've been watching your face journey for the last two minutes," I literally almost jumped off the couch in surprise when Milan announced himself at the entrance of our cramped living room, jacket slung over his shoulder and dress shirt already mostly unbuttoned. "And I've narrowed it down to two possibilities."

Without waiting for me to respond, my roommate dropped himself onto the couch next to me, placing his socked feet in my lap as a very effective way to keep me from running away.

"Uh... you're back early. Date not go well?"

"Ugh. Do they ever? Now which one is it: either someone sent you an unwanted dick pic that ended up being _surprisingly_ nice—in which case, you know you better share the love—"

"Nobody sent me a dick pic," I rolled my eyes, dropping my phone in my lap.

"Then did some old guy on Grindr offer to pay you for something? Cause—no judgment—just know that if they ask for your bank account number, it's definitely a scam."

"Milan, I already—I'm not even on Grindr! I told you, I don't... y'know..."

"Okay, well... good," he nodded. "Stay away. Because some guy going by the name 'Jacques' has stolen money from like... three of my friends this month, so..."

I laughed and let my head fall back onto the cushions—just another night living with Antwerp’s most eligible guru...

I first met Milan as a newly registered university student, first time exploring the student commons, and—most importantly—only a few days after I'd first admitted to myself that I was probably, almost-definitely not straight. Dear, lovely, way too nosey Milan, decked out with a rainbow lapel pin and working the info-table for our campus LGBT support group, spotted me and my poorly-masked interest almost as soon as I stepped onto the floor.

And while, admittedly, he mostly spent those first few days trying to flirt with me—something we've both tacitly agreed to never acknowledge—once he realized just how, uh, _new_ I was to the whole ‘being gay’ thing, he very quickly declared himself my own personal guru for the 'new world of adventure that laid before me.'

Didn't really give me much choice in the matter, to be honest.

And, not to get too sappy or sentimental or anything, but... there's a reason I moved in with him and not Jens after college. Once all my plans with David, y'know... fell apart. 

So...

"So what's with the faces then? Hmm? Because I know that look, Robbe. I may not have seen it for a while, but don't you dare try to tell me it's not about some guy." Milan had shifted to sit like a normal human, chin resting in his hands as he leveled an appraising look at me. And for a moment I considered lying. Not my strong suit, but it wouldn't have been that hard to just come up with a random guy from a random bar.

I mean, there were reasons I hadn't told anyone in my life about Sander. But...

"Okay," I fell back into my own corner. "Fine. It's about a guy."

"Oooh! Finally!" I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes as he got himself way too excited. Milan wasn't the only one of my friends to encourage me to get back in the game after the end of my last relationship, but he was absolutely the most vocal about it. "I’m tired of seeing you mope around looking so lonely. So who's the lucky man? Wait! Actually, don't tell me. Let me guess. Let me... the guy from my gym? What's his name... um—Gabriel! Gabriel with the—y’know, with the abs!"

"Uh... fuck you! And yeah, no—that dude never even called me back."

"Too bad...” Milan hummed pleasantly. “Thomas? From the bar?"

"What! God—no, he was such a creep!"

"Jules?"

"No. No! Enough guessing! Jesus, I... what exactly do you think my type _is_?"

Milan laughed me off, as if he didn't have a bad habit of trying to set me up with every random single guy he had the pleasure of running into. And by 'setting me up' I mean getting me their number or—when he really wanted to piss me off—just... giving them mine. I mean, sometimes the guys in the pictures he showed me were attractive. Sometimes very attractive. And sometimes they very much... weren't.

Obviously, it had never worked out either way.

"Well whatever it is, if Gabriel from the gym doesn't fit into it, then I am very confused."

"No—it's..." I sighed. Based off the picture Milan had shown me, Gabriel from the gym had been... incredibly attractive. He also had stopped responding almost immediately after I sent him a picture of myself, so... yeah. That was a great post-David boost to my confidence. "It's none of those guys. And the guy doesn't matter, okay? I'm just confused about a thing he... does. I guess. It's... I mean, have you... have you ever had a guy that, like..."

I wasn't quite sure how to describe the issue at hand.

"Wait! Wait, if this is a fetish thing, then I'm going to need a drink first."

"It's not a—Milan! It's not a... uh, fetish. Thing."

Sort of the opposite, really. Right?

"Well, I need a drink anyway. Wine?"

Milan isn’t the type of person who waits for an answer to questions like that. Before I'd even finished hiding my head in my hands, he was returning with two very full coffee mugs of wine, one of which he set on the table in front of me with a flourish.

"Okay, so no weird stuff then. That's a relief—no offense. So then what is up, my dear? Why the long face?"

I hesitated, because, well... I mean, Milan and I had talked about sex before. In the way friends do. And also in a more... abstract sense before I’d gotten laid for the first time. But this felt sort of, y'know... specific.

"I, uh... okay, so. Have you ever been with a guy who, like..." I mean, how exactly would you phrase the issue? "Won't, uh... let himself have sex with you?"

"You mean someone who wants to, like... wait 'til marriage?" God, the look on his face—like the thought both confused and disturbed him—was fucking hilarious.

"No! No, I mean..." At least, I'm pretty fucking sure that wasn't what it was. From what I knew about Sander. I hope. "No. I just... ugh, fuck it. Okay, so I, uh... I met this guy."

"Okay. Good start. And do I know this 'guy?'"

"Ah... no."

God, could you imagine? Sander with all my... my Antwerp friends? Those fuckers were bad enough when I first brought David around, and I got the feeling Sander was, like... significantly more interested in being embarrassing.

Not that Sander was—

Anyway.

"Fine! Fine, keep your secrets." Milan declared with way too much drama behind his eyes. "For now."

"I just—we've been out together twice," I sighed and ignored Milan's raised eyebrow as he took a large gulp of wine, "and it ended the same way both times. With him pressing me against a wall, making it, y'know, very clear that, uh—"

"That he's into you."

"Yes. That. And then when I try to, like, move the action to the bedroom... he stops."

I was really, really trying not to sound as desperate as I actually felt. Though, from the look Milan was giving me I’m not sure I hid it well. It’s just—it was already embarrassing enough! The last thing I needed was for my already over-involved roommate to know exactly how much I needed to solve this problem. For my own sanity.

"I see," Milan hummed, twisting his face into his amused problem-solving expression, finger tapping at his chin as he continued to take near-constant sips of his wine. "And he hasn't told you why?"

"No!" My voice squeaked as my frustration slipped out a little. Had to... reel myself back in for a second. "I mean. The first night he said I was too drunk—"

"Respectable. I like that."

"Yeah. Yeah, I, uh... but, I mean, this second time we were both sober. And he was..." it took me a moment to stop my mind from going incredibly in depth about what Sander had been.

Hot. Hard. Pressing against my hip like wanted to take me right there on the street. 

"He was definitely into it."

"Mhmm."

"And then just... he stopped."

Fuck. 

I didn’t want to admit it. Not to Sander, not to Milan, but the dread—true, honest _dread_ —that had curdled in my gut when I took the lonely elevator back to my room. It... I mean, look. I'm not generally a fuck-on-the-first-date kind of guy. I've only actually slept with three different guys. In my relatively limited past, a date where the guy wasn't into it, or just didn't want to have sex, it wasn't an issue. But this thing with Sander... it felt different. It felt personal. I don't really know how else to describe it. It was the tone of his voice. It was how much he seemed like he hated what he was doing.

Fuck. It felt hauntingly familiar.

"And he didn't say anything?"

"He just said he 'shouldn't.'" All I could do was shrug. "I mean, he did say 'next time' would be... but I don't know. What if he was just saying that? I guess?"

I felt sort of pathetic, asking that. I mean, it's not like he's never going to sleep with me. Right?

"Okay," Milan hummed. "Okay, can't say I'm _personally_ familiar with this kind situation, but... anyway. So you said you're pretty sure this guy... what's his name?"

"Sander."

"So you're pretty sure Sander is into you?"

I took a half-second to think about the other parts of our night together. My mind was particularly happy to focus on the way he'd looked at me after I breathed fire. The way he'd been so obviously eager as he pressed against me in front of the hotel.

"I, uh... yeah," I let out an awkward laugh and tried not to blush. Or get hard in my sweatpants.

“And clearly you’re into him,” Milan hummed, ignoring my raised eyebrow as he pushed through to his point. "Then I say you give the guy another chance," he shrugged, like that was the simplest solution in the world.

"Yeah, but—"

"Because it seems to me you have two options. Right? You say no, and you can just mope around the apartment for the rest of your life. Or, my dear, you can trust that he has his reasons, go out with him again, and the worst thing that happens is, what, you don't get laid? I mean, I guess the other possibility is that this guy is actually an evil asshole who's _brilliant_ plan is to take you out on fun dates but leave you horny and insecure, but...”

Well when you put it like that...

"Fine, but Milan—"

"And I mean, even if that made sense! Honestly, I don't even think I'd mind if that happened to me," he laughed. "As long as the dates were good. Are the dates good?"

_Dates._

"Yeah..." 

"And is he nice to look at? Pretty face? Fit? Why haven't you shown me a picture of this mysterious suitor, hmm? C'mon!"

I knew I either had to show him the picture or walk away, because he'd already finished his glass of wine and was starting on mine, and there's really no debating my roommate when he was tipsy. 

“Fine,” I muttered over Milan’s whisper-chant of 'Sander, Sander...' I scrolled through the pictures he'd sent me over the prior week—we'd finally started doing that, though, unfortunately, nothing below the belt—until I found one that seemed appropriate for the situation.

“So it’s decided, then?” Milan asked, holding out his hand like an impatient brat. “You’re going out with him again?”

“Yup,” I sighed. “Guess so.”

"So that wasn't such a hard decision after all."

"Right," I shrugged, trying to pretend I wasn’t feeling weirdly stressed by my decision. "Just gotta, like, not let myself think he's fucking with me, right? Or actually thinks I'm hideous, or whatever."

"Oh, darling, you're not hideous. You need a haircut," he stretched over to poke at some of the longer stray hairs I'd tucked behind my ear, "but other than that... Okay, hurry up and show me your man!"

"He’s not my man! Jesus! Fine, here—he’s on the left. With the bleached hair." The picture was of Sander and Senne, toasting beers on the couch. Apparently it had been taken by Zoë, a friendly celebration at the end of a work week. 

"Oh!" Milan snatched the phone from my hand. "Hello! Well look at you! Haven't you done well for yourself."

"Alright, alright. Thank you. Just—"

"And the other one? Is he..." he flipped the phone around, pointing to Senne as he leaned forward. 

"Taken, I think," I laughed. I wonder if Milan would ever be able to take Zoë in a fight. I mean, hypothetically. 

Hard to tell.

"Fine! Once again, no one for Milan!" Dramatically, he tossed my phone back into my lap. "No—no, I've come to expect it."

"Mhmm," I rolled my eyes and pushed myself off the couch. The conversation had clearly reached its end—Milan could get a bit... much when he got wine-drunk. And I wanted to get out of there before he started telling stories from his most recently failed date. "You good in here? I'm heading to bed."

"Wait! Wait—Robbe. When do I get to meet your new beau?" Despite being only two glasses of wine down, there was already that over-eagerness in his voice—if I had to bet, he'd probably had a few drinks during dinner. "Don't think you can keep that pretty face away from me!"

In response, I just shook my head and laughed, disappearing into my room and ignoring Milan's loudly repeated demands until he got bored of my silence. It felt too weird to tell him that the answer to his question was 'probably never.' Then I'd have to explain why I was putting so much thought into a guy that lived hundreds of miles away, and...

Yeah.

Besides, I had other things to worry about.

++++++++++++++++++++++

_Fuck._

I checked my phone yet again as I jumped out of the cab, holding out hope that I had somehow missed a notification since the last time I’d checked thirty seconds ago. But I hadn’t. There was nothing waiting to be read, or heard, or seen. Nothing. Just...

I think I fucked up. Maybe. I don't know. I—

Thursday night in City Number 1, I got drunk. Very drunk. One of the guys in the lab I was auditing, it was his birthday, and we all went out and one thing lead to another, and I got incredibly drunk. Bad decisions drunk. And, generally, if there was competition out there for who could make the most impressive bad decisions I'm sure that drunk-me could win, hands down. But usually, I _know_ , on some level, that what I'm doing is stupid. I just don't care to stop myself.

This time...

Sander and I had been chatting. All day. Like, much more than usual. And, during work, sober-me could tell that he was a little off—like, maybe he was just in a shitty mood or something, but his responses lacked the usual high-energy flirtation—but I didn’t let myself be too concerned because he seemed so eager to talk. Responding to everything I said no matter how dull. Hitting me up with a double text any time I didn't respond fast enough. And as far as sober-me was concerned, it was all good. As long as he wanted to talk, everything was chill.

But drunk-me... 

Drunk-me got horny. 

Made it all the way through the night keeping the conversation going, made it all the way back to my hotel room without doing anything especially noteworthy. But lying in bed, chatting with a still-awake Sander, drunkenly fantasizing about all the things I wanted him to do to me...

I got horny. I was drunk, and stupid, and all you had to do was look down at my boxers to see just how incredibly fucking _horny_ I was. 

And I thought I was so fucking clever. Thought I'd just... take a picture. Show Sander how hard just _texting_ him could make me. Maybe that would be what it took to push us over that final barrier. Maybe all I needed to do was make it clear how much I wanted him. And drunk-me was absolutely sure that a poorly focused shot of the tent I was making under the sheets was enough to do it.

Oh. Don't worry. I made sure to accompany the photo with a winking emoji.

And I was... when Sander responded a few minutes later by saying it was time for bed for both of us, I was disappointed. I thought it had been a good picture. An _impressive_ picture. It even showed off a little bit of the abs I'd slowly redeveloped after cutting myself off of room service for a few months. But I wasn't quite drunk enough to think it was something worth debating, so I took his advice. I said goodnight. I went to sleep. And I woke up with a hangover muddled by a strong sense of regret.

Fuck.

Apologizing right away would make me seem desperate, but I decided that as soon as Sander reached out I would beg forgiveness.

The thing is... he didn't.

For the first time in about a month, I made it all the way back to my hotel for the night without a single message. No texts, no DMs, no shared links. My stomach had been slowing sinking into a pit all day, because...

What if—

The first thing I did when I got to my room was apologize. Because— _fuck_ —what if I crossed a line? Yes it was stupid, but what if it was _worse_?

 **Robbe:** _Sander im sorry about last night._

**Robbe:** _I was drunker than i thought and it was stupid. i didnt mean anything by it. I didnt meant to upset you._

 **Robbe:** _Sorry._

That was two days ago.

Fuck. _Fuck!_ What if I... what if I misread everything? What if I misremembered everything? And none of this was ever on the table? What if he never wanted me like that? What if—

Did I—

What do I—

_”Robbe... what the fuck? What...”_

_There were lit candles on every flat surface of the room, surrounding the bed with a warm, soft light. I’d scattered rose petals from where he stood, staring at me in the doorway, to the edge of the bed. It had been more than half an hour of work, done secretly and efficiently while he finished his shift at work. But I wanted it be worth it. Wanted it to be special._

_“Setting the mood.” I grinned, keeping the eagerness out of my voice—I wanted to sound sexy. As sexy as possible. As alluring as possible._

_I wanted to get a reaction. To have fun. To create a ‘moment.’_

_I wanted this to work._

_“By making a mess? I... how much did you spend on candles? Jesus.”_

_“Ah—that’s not...” pushing myself up, I felt myself already beginning to falter. Because he wasn’t smiling at me like how I’d imagined it while setting this up. He wasn’t tearing off his clothes to join me in bed. He was just leaning against the door, staring at me. Slowly, I grabbed one of his pillows and hugged it to my chest—my shirtlessness suddenly felt inappropriately naked as he looked at me. Foolish. Stupid._

_“It’s romantic. Right? I was hoping we could...” I glanced next to me at the bottle of wine, the heart-shaped box of chocolates that I’d set up on his desk._

_“Robbe...” he sighed. And I would always remember that sigh. So disappointed. So... bored._

_“David, I—“_

_“Work sucked, today,” he shook his head. “We overbooked reservations, everyone was pissed, the kitchen couldn’t get anything out on time... I’m exhausted.”_

_He sighed again, tossing his jacket onto the chair with an air of finality. Of ‘No’. I could feel my heart clench, and freeze, and drop—just like it had every time I’d tried to initiate anything more physical than a peck on the cheek since Christmas. Every time he sighed, and shook his head, and muttered. I..._

_Clearly, I wasn’t what he wanted anymore._

_“I’m sorry, babe. Next time, I promise. I’m just not—“_

“Robbe? Darling, are you feeling okay?”

In a blink, the memory of the bedroom—the flowers and candlelight and overwhelming dread—popped out of existence. In its place, I was standing in the familiar hallway of a well-kept apartment building. My mom’s voice—worried, concerned, warm—still confusing me for a moment as I tried to make sense of her face. As I took a second to remember exactly what I was doing while she stared at me from her door.

“Ah... yeah, Mama,” I forced a shrug, reaching forward to give her a light hug. “I'm fine. Was just lost in thought for a minute.”

“Didn’t look like a very pleasant thought." With pursed lips, she pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and took a step back to let me in. The inside of her apartment already smelled incredible as I crossed the threshold. These Sunday lunches with my mom were the closest thing I had to a schedule here in Antwerp. And it was a tradition I was becoming increasingly protective over—even Jens knew not to try to plan something for Sunday afternoons.

"It was a work-thought, Mama," I grinned, pushing her concern to the side I stepped into her pleasantly neat living room, taking in a deep inhale of what smelled like roast chicken. There was a magazine open on the coffee table with a still-warm cup of tea beside it. A soft white blanket ruffled on the cushion the only thing I could see that wasn't put away or folded. All good signs. "Who wants to think about work on a Sunday?"

"Fair enough," I decided to ignore the suspicion in her voice as I pushed through to her small kitchen, checking on the oven and doing a quick once over to make sure nothing looked out of place—all the knives in the block, no overflowing dirty dishes, no piled up trash. All good. "How is work, by the way? Have you heard anything back about that promotion?"

There was no promotion, per se, but that misconception was my fault. I may have told her a lot of the same partial-truths that I told Yasmina and anyone else who asked about my position.

"Ah... work's great!" I lied, making a show of turning with the biggest, sincerest smile I could muster. "Yeah, honestly, I really like my new manager. He, uh... he turned out to be not as much of a dick as I thought would be."

"Robbe! Hush!" Shaking her head, she walked over to pat me lightly on the cheek. "You shouldn't talk about your superiors that way—no wonder you haven't gotten that promotion."

"No, Mama," I rolled my eyes, "I haven't gotten promoted because I've been there less than a year."

Finally, I took a moment to look over my mom's face. There were some dark circles under her eyes that I could make out through her makeup—I would have to check later to see if the insomnia had started up again—but otherwise... her eyes were clear, her skin looked healthy. Even her hair was done up in a messy but well-kept bun. 

Good. That was all good.

"Oh, they just haven't figured out how amazing you are." With another light, loving pat of my cheek, my mom pushed past me to look in the oven with a burst of tittering, joyful laughter. And as she knelt down to poke at the chicken—somehow able to divine whether or not it was done with just her finger—I finally felt the ball of energy in my chest slowly begin to unwind. To relax.

Things were good.

Mama was good.

Just because it had been a few months since her last episode didn't mean the next one would happen any time soon. And at the very least, I felt confident that she wouldn't get bad before the next time I saw her.

"So how was your week, Mama?" I leaned against the counter, unable to hold back my grin as I watched her easily manhandle the heavy-looking pan of chicken and vegetables out of the oven.

"Oh. You know," her still-mitted hands hovered just above the surface of the sizzling chicken as she examined it. Fuck—it smelled so amazing. There were not nearly enough chances for me to eat home-cooked meals in my life. "Helga still wants me to start working nights two days a week. Doesn't matter how many times I remind her that we agreed to day-shifts only when I was hired."

"Does the store even get many customers at night?" I asked, not really caring about the answer. Just happy to enjoy my little island of normalcy.

"No. Of course not," my mom sighed, turning off the oven before facing me with a rueful smile. "Barely enough for one clerk, much less two. I think she just wants someone to keep an eye on the new girl, to be honest."

"What's wrong with the new girl?" I asked. Thoughts of text messages and dirty pictures and fuckups slowly filtered from my mind, and, for the first time in days, I didn't feel the urge to check my phone.

It was nice.

"What's _not_ wrong with the new girl!"

++++++++++++++++++++++++

 **Sander:** _hey sorry im disappeared like that. dont worry about it though, its good._

Six days. That's how long of a gap there was between my apology to Sander and his response. Six days of my mental state bouncing between deep distress and 'fuck it, what's done is done.' And on the sixth day, I just woke up in my hotel room in City Number 2 and... there it was. Sander's response. Sent at 3:17 AM.

If you're curious, my mental state eventually settled on 'Good job, Robbe, you had something fun and you fucked it up. Big surprise. Try not to do that again in the future.'

Which is how I eventually respond to almost all of my fuckups.

The only problem was that now I had no idea how to reply.

Did I go with nonchalance? Pretending I was never that worried and just ignoring that this had ever happened?

Should I be upset that he ghosted me for a week? Or was that presumptuous? I mean, it's not like he _owed_ me a response. I mean it's not like we were—

Okay, no—getting ahead of myself. Middle of the road. Just... have to be normal.

 **Robbe:** _Okay cool. I am sorry though. I know we never talked about that stuff._

Okay. Yeah. That's good. Reiterate my apology but be ready to move on when he is. All good. Totally didn't stare at my phone every possible moment while I was getting ready for the day.

 **Sander:** _no i promise firebreather its good. it was spicy._

 **Sander:** _i like it_

I felt my breath catch in my throat, almost choking on the free coffee from the hotel lobby.

 **Sander:** _a lot_

I didn't want to let myself think he was saying what I thought he was saying. Because what I _thought_ he was saying was—no. Stop. Getting ahead of myself was what got me in this situation in the first place. I was just going to have to let Sander lead this. Let him decide where he wanted it to go.

Fuck, I can't believe how much I missed talking to him. What the fuck is wrong with me, how could I be this desperate to get laid?

 **Robbe:** _Im glad_

That was, to say the least, an understatement.

 **Robbe:** _I thought I scared you off_

 **Sander:** _its not that impressive, firebreather_

A joke! Jokes are good. Even lame ones that imply I have a small penis—which I do _not_ , by the way!

 **Sander:** _i do feel bad about disappearing though. can i make it up to you?_

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

I paused on my walk to work, nearly causing a five-person pileup on the sidewalk outside a small cafe. Even as an older woman in a cardigan cursed under her breath and pushed past, there was a smile planted firmly on my face. And as I started walking again, there was a new bounce to my step.

I didn't fuck it up! Even with his response there was still a part of me that assumed I had fucked it all up but I _didn't_! In fact...

 **Robbe:** _What did you have in mind? Dinner?_

I could feel myself straddling the razor edge between letting myself be happy and excited and going overboard—I was doing everything I could to keep my responses even. To keep myself even. To keep myself from becoming that weird horny guy I knew I sometimes slipped into. Plus, another dinner sounded nice. A chance to re-establish a baseline. Surely there were plenty more obscure restaurants with cuisines I'd never heard of that he could take me to. More events. More—

 **Sander:** _actually i was thinking breakfast. i make amazing french toast._

Well, that was unexpected.

 **Robbe:** _You planning to come cook for me in my hotel room? When exactly would you have time for that?_

I laughed to myself, imagining Sander in a chef's uniform knocking on my door with a hotplate and prep station early one morning. It was cute.

Sander in a uniform? _Very_ cute.

 **Sander:** _actually i was thinking at my place. monday? start the week out right._

 **Sander:** _and in case it wasnt completely obvious thats also an invitation to stay at my place on sunday. if you want._

Oh. Right.

I...

The burst of energy that coursed through my body as I tried to type my response was almost enough to shake the phone out of my hands. Because— _oh_ —I may be an idiot sometimes but even I could figure this out. And suddenly all the things that I was worried about didn't matter very much. Because...

 **Robbe:** _I would like that._

I smiled to myself, and tried to calm myself down before I had to walk into the lab for the day.

 **Robbe:** _A lot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This one took a lot longer than I expected to get out. Just setting things up for the new month, thought it would only take a week, but lo and behold life decided to get crazy. And to be honest, I'm worried I sorta screwed things up at the end of this chapter so any tips on how you think I could improve are welcome! Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this and like where things are going! Let me know how you feel or what you want to see!


	5. March On, Dear Boy: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe and Sander finally spend a night together. A whole night. It just starts off a bit rough. And wet. (Fourth scene contains fairly explicit material. Can be avoided if that upsets you)

It wasn't exactly perfect.

The storm came out of fucking nowhere. I swear. Absolutely nowhere—even the little weather notification tablet in the hotel lobby hadn't mentioned anything about rain. It just popped up from the ether on the walk to Sander's, this universe's attempt to gently remind me that I'm not, and never will be the one in control.

It was a cold rain. Driving bursts of icy wet, driven in whips of wind that seemed almost unnatural. The kind of rain you only get at the very end of the winter—not warm enough to be snow but still freezing enough to chill you to the bone. In just a few minutes I was completely soaked through. My shirt, my jacket, my shoes—even the backpack with my change of clothes. By the time I ducked into the open lobby at the address Sander had provided, I was shivering. And by the time the door to the apartment swung open, my teeth were chattering hard enough that I thought they might break.

For just a moment, there was a part of me that thought Senne was about slam the door in my face.

Don't even know where that thought came from.

"Sander! Your Robin's here!"

If I wasn't halfway to hypothermia, I would have rolled my eyes. "It's—"

"Robbe! You’re—oh shit! Are you okay?"

Before I could correct his roommate, Sander appeared from around a corner. He had a dishtowel slung over the shoulder of a hole-ridden white sweater, a bread-knife clutched in one hand, and an apron—an honest to god apron—tied around his waist. An apron! Holy shit! I had no idea domesticity could be that fucking attractive!

If I had to freeze to death, it wasn't a bad last image to get to see.

“Ah…” Around chattering teeth, I forced a smile, trying to ignore the fact that there was a trail of water that traced my path from Sander’s lobby all the way to where I stood just inside his door. Still dripping. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just…”

“Shit,” I could just barely hear concern hidden under how obviously amusing Sander found my predicament. He could barely keep the laughter down. Especially once I started glaring. “Yeah, let me just—“

He dashed off, returning a moment later, slightly more composed and with a fluffy white towel.

My savior. 

“So… you take a dive in the river?” Senne asked, now leaning against the wall with a smirk. 

“More like a river took a dive on me,” I huffed, patting fruitlessly at my shirt as if there was any chance it might fix things. “Storm came out of nowhere. Seriously.”

“Yeah, that happens here,” Sander shrugged. “Do you want a change of clothes, or… I have some sweats? Might be a bit big on you.”

I chose to ignore that last bit.

“Please. And a dryer if you guys have one here? I think this is all pretty, uh… drenched.”

“There’s a few in the basement,” Senne responded.

“Yeah, uh, Senne can put them in for you. He was just about to head out anyway.”

“I was?” For a moment, Senne paused his attempt to edge around the puddle I was creating to give Sander a look.

You know. The _’I’m going to do what?’_ look.

“Are you…”

“Mhmm,” Sander nodded, responding with his own look as I pretended not to notice. Instead, I hid my eyes while attempting to dry my hair—of course, the one night I actually had a chance to fix my hair before going out, the universe decides to ruin it. “To go to Zoë's for the night.”

There was a pause. And I assume a further exchanging of looks.

“Right…”

Then the towel was snatched off my head, and I had just enough time to take in the weird—I might even say suspicious—glare Senne was regarding me with before Sander was dragging me toward another room.

“Awesome!” Sander called over his shoulder, apparently unbothered by the fact that his roommate had started shaking his head in disbelief “Just give us a minute!”

With a tug, Sander pulled me into a bedroom that was, well, unsurprisingly messy. But surprisingly large. Larger than the one I kept back in Antwerp. But, again, with significantly more crap lying around. A large queen-sized bed sat in the middle of one wall, rumpled sheets covered up by a near-mountain of clothes. Beside it, taking up most of a wall that also held a closet, was a bookshelf filled with probably hundreds of vinyl records—and maybe even one or two books. There was a guitar leaning against one corner and an empty easel in another, but what I found myself actually staring at was the wall across from the bed.

Aside from two posters—one for David Bowie and one for a band I’d never heard of—the other walls were bare. But that wall? It was absolutely _covered_ in sketches. Rough. Detailed. Fine pencil lines and thick charcoal smudges. Faceless figures in action poses, detailed riverfront landscapes, even a bowl of slightly-misshapen fruit. And each one with a stylized, scribbled ‘Sander Driesen’ etched in the bottom right corner. 

Holy shit. He really is an artist.

There was a part of me that assumed he’d been fucking with me about that the whole time.

“Here, I think…” I turned around to see the head of white hair leaning down to inspect the pile of clothes, “alright. Sweatpants, and… here. It’s uh…” 

He turned around, a goofy sort-of-smile adorning his face as he held up some black sweatpants and a wrinkled looking t-shirt. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking notice as I glanced behind him toward the bed. “They’re clean. Promise. Today was laundry day.”

“Uh… yeah.” I shook my head, grinned, and accepted the bundle of clothes. “Thanks.”

“There’s a bathroom,” he pointed toward another door, where I could see a small sink and tile walls, “y’know, if you want some privacy.”

“Already trying to get me to strip in front of you?” I smirked, tugging rhythmically at the hem of my shirt. “How forward.”

“Hey, it’s not exactly the scenario I was envisioning, but… I’ll take what I can get.”

“Ah… Excuse you!” I laughed, chucking the shirt at Sander’s head with as much strength as I could. “You’ll fuckin’ take what I give you. Asshole.”

His playful laugh rang out as he tugged the light blue shirt off his head, mussing up his hair in a way that was too unfairly attractive—I mean, _come on_. And then, before I could throw any more fake irritation his way, he took two large steps forward, tilted my head back, and met my lips with a pleasant, solid kiss.

Now that got me feeling warmer.

“You’re damn right I will.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It wasn’t exactly perfect.

Our plan had been to go out to dinner, maybe a bar, and then walk around the town Sander had grown up in so that he could show off the graffiti he’d etched onto its face in his younger years. But with the rain refusing to disappear and Senne taking Sander’s car to get to his girlfriend’s, that plan was quickly discarded for a nebulous “next time.”

Instead, Sander offered to order pizza—once again refusing to let me pay, which, God _damn_ it—for a night in. 

And—honest to God—I couldn’t tell you why, but that freaked me the fuck out. I mean, I didn’t run away or anything. Not that kind of freaked out. The kind of freaked out that sits in your stomach, a roiling discomfort that’s only really there when you’re paying attention to it. The kind where you take a few extra minutes getting changed in the bathroom because you just need to… to settle. 

It’s just… I’m sure it’s just because it wasn’t the type of night I’d mentally prepared myself for. 

But what if…

_The frown, the sighs, the silence…_

Yeah. That.

The clothes Sander had given me were, unfortunately, large on my frame. But, to be fair, I had a feeling they were also probably equally large on Sander. They were definitely the kind of thing you wore to lounge around the house—the sweatpants had some frayed bits at the ankle, and the shirt was for a band whose name had faded after, I assume, years of use. But both were warm, soft, and dry, and just putting them on was enough to calm my heart a little.

I decided not to think about the fact that I was also wearing a pair of Sander’s underwear.

“So, movie night?” Sander was standing in the kitchen, in the process of whisking together something in a small metal bowl when I emerged—fully clothed and trying not to look as awkward as I felt.

I wonder what _he_ thought about the fact that I was wearing his underwear.

“Sure,” I shrugged. Not like I could come up with any better ideas.

“Netflix and—“

“Don’t you fucking say it.”

“…pizza.” He grinned, just a bit devilish, and I felt that roil in my stomach again. “Sounds like a good night to me.”

I nodded. Because it did sound like a good night. A really good night. Laying on the couch watching a movie, eating pizza, cuddling under a blanket. It was the type of night I used to love when I was with—

I tried not to let it show when my gut turned.

“Yeah,” I forced a grin and hoped Sander didn’t notice the hesitation. Because that was stupid. My body was being stupid. “So, what movie? Wait—no, don’t tell me! Let me guess. Something artsy as fuck, right? Something… oh fuck, something black and white? Right? That no one’s ever heard of?”

Sander chuckled, tossing the bowl in the fridge as I pushed myself up to sit on his counter.

Their kitchen was nice. Surprisingly nice. Nicer than my Mama’s.

“Someone’s confident. You’ve got me all figured out, huh?” Without turning around, he began arranging some thick slices of bread on a tray. “Is that it, firebreather?”

The amusement in his voice calmed the twisting of my stomach a bit. Or maybe it was the sharp smile sitting on his face when he glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh fuck yeah,” I grinned and decided to just ignore the way my stomach was being stupid. “I can see right through you. You’ve got the whole… sexy, I-want-to-be-mysterious-and-sophisticated artist thing written all over you.”

He stayed quiet, seemingly absorbed by the task of setting out the bread, and checking the contents of a little white pot on the counter, and grabbing a glass bottle of—I assume—maple syrup from the cabinet.

“You think I’m sexy?”

“Fuck you.”

I’m not sure if I laughed more at the faux-innocent tone in his voice, or at the absurd idea that there could be someone out there who _didn’t_ find the white hair, playful eyes, and sly smile as sexy as I did. But I laughed hard. 

Harder than was strictly normal.

I only stopped when Sander slotted himself into the space between my legs and silenced me with a kiss. Even then, it took a moment for me to stop laughing into his mouth—long enough for his hands to wrap around my waist, to pull me closer, to squeeze at my hips in a way that sent cold fire up my spine and directly to my groin.

“Careful, firebreather,” fuck him, how can he look that sexy after kissing me like that. Out of breath but somehow still in complete control. Fuck. “Keep complimenting me like that and you’ll give me a big head.”

And there’s a joke that I could have made. A damn good one about a ‘big head,’ and what I felt pressing against my thigh, and what exactly I wanted him to do to me later in his bedroom. It would have been a damn witty response—if I do say so myself.

But I didn’t say it. I held back. Didn’t say anything. 

Instead, I wrapped my fist into the loose collar of his sweater and tugged his lips back on to mine. And I traced my other hand through the hair on the back of his neck as I bit at his lip, drawing out a gasp that finally made me feel a little bit more in control. Instead of dirty jokes, I lowered myself slowly to the ground, feeling the whole of his body press against mine—press _hard_ against mine—before taking a step back. And another. And another. Lips never leaving his as I pulled us out of his kitchen, into his living room, and onto his couch.

“Fuck.”

It left his lips like a prayer as I moved down to his neck, as my hand began to trace at the warm skin of his lower back.

And if my mouth hadn’t been so busy I would have echoed the sentiment.

Because everything else was fun—the banter, the warmth, the devilish grins—but… The press of Sander’s thigh against mine as he lowered me back onto the cushions. The cold air that momentarily kissed my side as he pushed up the t-shirt. The warmth of his big, strong fingers as they ghosted over my chest. 

The solid tug as he pulled me off him by my hair, as he exposed my own neck, as he scraped his teeth against my skin. The hot breath and stuttered half-words and broken groans—coming from him, from me, from both of us. The way my name sounded as it tumbled off his tongue.

_”Robbe…”_

The pleasantries were nice. But this? This is why I was in his apartment, after all.

Right?

+++++++++++++++++++++

It wasn’t exactly perfect.

When the pizza delivery guy called, Sander practically jumped off me. And there was a moment—breaths falling hard, lips swollen, cheeks flush and eyes blown—where he stared down at me like… 

Like he was scared.

“Shit! One minute.”

And then he was gone. Rummaging through his room with his phone pressed to his ear, reassuring whoever was on the other end that he’d be down in a moment. That he just needed to find his wallet.

And there was nothing for me to do but sit there. Nothing to do but tug at the hem of my shirt and try to catch my breath while Sander disappeared down to the lobby for a minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Nothing to do but try not to think about the way he’d looked at me. Try not to focus on the roaring storm of anxiety that blew so quickly back to life in my stomach. Try to ignore the voice in my head telling me that somewhere in the course of the night, I’d made a mistake. That this whole… _thing_ had been a mistake.

Instead, I tried to come up with a plan. I…

I just needed to ask. 

It’s better to pull off the band-aid, right? Even if this is just… fun? It’s better to figure out what the issue is now. Better not to be dragged along for months, knowing something’s wrong but just waiting passively for him to tell you.

Tell me.

I was going to ask. I was.

I was.

But when the door to the apartment opened, and Sander walked through holding a slightly soggy pizza box… I couldn’t.

Or, to be more precise, I didn’t need to. 

There was an unfamiliar seriousness in the way Sander looked at me when he dropped our dinner on the coffee table. A resignation. I could see it in his eyes, and the way he kept tapping his wallet against his thigh like it might make money magically appear. Like it might make _something_ magically appear.

“Do you want a drink? Water? Or we have a bunch of different types of beer?”

“Ah… water,” I nodded. My throat was feeling dry, though I’m not sure if it was from the heavy make-out or the way he was looking at me. “Sander, are—“

“One sec.”

When he disappeared into the kitchen, all I could hear was the opening of cabinets, then a drawer, then the fridge. I heard water pouring into glasses, the sound of ice cracking and swirling in a glass, the sound of something shaking in a container.

And then I heard a deep breath.

“Okay.”

I stayed quiet as he placed the two glasses of water on the table, kept my legs tucked beneath me as he disappeared a second later to come back with some nice-looking plates, and nodded quietly when he pulled two slices out for us.

I felt like I was supposed to wait. It felt like that kind of atmosphere, something floating above us that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. Or maybe had been there all night. Or this entire time. I felt like I was supposed to wait for him to tell me what it was.

But then he stopped. Sitting on the couch, hands clasped between his legs, head bent as if in prayer… he stopped. And the silence that fell over the apartment was broken only by the occasional shift of the ice in our glasses.

And I couldn’t wait anymore.

“Sander… is something wrong?” I was nervous, and it felt a bit like crossing a boundary—because we weren’t really _there_ , were we? We were just two guys having fun—but I reached out to touch his shoulder. Exactly like Milan always did when he found me freaking out on a couch. Exactly like my Mama always did when she picked me up from those crappy lunches and dinners with my Dad. “Is there…”

I’m not as good at it as they are. 

I feel like I should be better.

“Yeah,” after another moment, Sander looked up. Finally. I watched him take in a deep breath and tried to keep the stress and confusion from showing on my face. “Yeah. I, uh…”

I started to mentally prepare myself for the _’Sorry.’_ For the _’I think you should leave.’_ It didn’t quite make sense, but part of me still knew it was coming.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said instead, confusing me even more as he leaned forward to place two little white somethings next to his plate. Pills. Drugs? “About last week. About why I disappeared on you. I—“

“No. Hey, look, it’s okay,” I tried to swallow my confusion. Assuage his misplaced guilt. “I shouldn’t have sent that to you like that. Really. I get it.”

“No. You…” Sander sighed and I tried not to let my heart stutter at how tired he sounded. _That sigh_. For a moment, he just stared at his hands. At the dark smudge on his left thumb, at the thick callous on his right ring finger. And I stayed quiet and tried to prepare myself to be told to leave.

Tried not to let my stomach drop when he took a deep breath and turned to me with…

He was smiling, almost. If it weren’t for his eyes.

“This,” he leaned forward, grabbing one of the pills and holding it up, “is my mood stabilizer. I take it every night with dinner.”

Without pausing he popped the tablet in his mouth and swallowed it with a swig of water.

“And this is my anti-psychotic,” he explained, voice sounding a bit more strained like he was ready to flinch away. “Every night with dinner. And I have an anti-depressant that I take in the mornings, too.”

I knew what those were. I knew what those did. My Mama had been taking anti-depressants since I was eleven. But why…

“Okay.” I kept my voice steady, my eyes open and my stare steady and—hopefully—supportive. I may not have known exactly what was going on, but even I could understand when someone was telling me something important. “Sander, you—“

“I’m bipolar,” he said like he was letting out a long-held breath.

Oh.

That feeling in my stomach settled and then twisted in a whole new way as something started to make sense of itself in my mind. Because…

Okay.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sander followed up quickly. Looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulder—but not all the way. Not yet. “I just wanted you to know before we… do anything else. Before anything else happens, y’know? Just… a few weeks ago I felt myself dipping into a low. First time in a while—I thought it might just pass, or stay manageable. But it didn’t.”

I felt my heart twist in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“Anyway,” he coughed. “That’s why I, uh, disappeared. You just… you deserve to know that. It had nothing to do with you, or that very… very nice picture.”

“Bad timing,” my lips quirked into a smile as he nodded let out a light laugh. 

There was a part of me that wanted to reach out and squeeze his knee and tell him about my mom. About how she was in and out of hospitals and institutions with poorly controlled disorders for most of my adolescence. That, on some level, I understood what he was really trying to tell me. That it wasn’t a problem he needed to worry about with me.

But as Sander kept looking at me with that weak smile, eyes trailing from my face to my hands to the way I was sitting on his couch, I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say.

So instead, I said, “Okay.”

Instead, I smiled and said, “Thanks for trusting me. For telling me.”

Instead, I took a bite of the pizza and asked, “So what movie do you want to watch?”

And maybe I’m not the best at this—maybe Milan and Mama would have come up with a response that would have removed that last bit of weight from his shoulders. That would have let him fully relax into the couch. But they weren’t there. 

And, at the very least, I got him to smile.

+++++++++++++++++++++

It wasn’t exactly perfect.

Sander’s movie taste was… questionable at best. But I don’t think either of us really cared that much about the film he’d resolutely insisted was _’a classic of horror cinema.’_

For the first twenty minutes, I don’t think either of us knew what to do at all.

Talking about the crappy effects from the ’80s felt out of place and awkward after Sander’s, um… revelation. The few comments he did make fell flat when I didn’t know how to respond.

Then, my instincts shouted, _’Hold his hand!_ but, jeez—how middle-school awkward can you get?

And for a moment, it even seemed like Sander wanted to, like, cuddle. Shifting around looking like he was getting ready to lay his head in my lap. But then he stopped. And I stopped shifting the pillows to make it easier. I think because we both realized that that would be just a bit too… familiar?

So neither of us knew what to do. And it was one-hundred percent starting to get awkward. And I really didn’t want that to happen. I really _really_ didn’t want him to think things were awkward because of what he’d told me. I just didn’t know what the right move was.

So… once the pizza was done, and the movie was picking up, and Sander was sort-of settling into the couch beside me, I just did the first thing that came to mind.

I kissed him.

I kissed him _hard_. Harder than I was expecting. Harder than he was expecting, too. The surprised whine—or grunt, or moan, or… to be honest I don’t think I can accurately describe the sound he made when I pulled him toward me—setting off confused but happy fireworks in my brain. And then he started kissing back. 

And neither of us really cared about the movie, or the dinner, or the awkwardness after that.

I was far too busy giving Sander full access to my neck, trying not to moan too loudly as he scraped his teeth over what was sure to become a bruise.

And then Sander was far too busy ignoring my laughing protests as he threw me over his shoulder and carried me to his room.

And then I was far too busy ridding us both of our clothes.

And it wasn’t exactly perfect. Sander’s sweater got caught on his head, and I was too distracted staring at his chest, his golden skin, his fucking _six-pack abs_ to be of much help. Too busy trying not to drool.

Which is why I didn’t notice the glint in his eye once the sweater was finally torn off, the devilish smile on his lips before he literally tackled me back onto his bed. Which is why I couldn’t stop my skull from smacking against his headboard.

No. It wasn’t perfect. We were both fucking _ruined_ by whatever was going on in our heads. Straddling the line between arousal and uncontrollable laughter, tumbling headfirst from one into the other every few minutes as we both tried and failed to gain control.

The way Sander panted and moaned as my tongue and lips began to work his chest, his nipple—it sent a jolt down my spine, made me strain against my borrowed briefs.

And the way those moans quickly flipped into giggles and squirming when I accidentally tickled his side made my chest fucking bloom with this unbelievable warmth. And joy. And, _holy shit_ —how did it make me even hornier?

The way Sander looked up at me after kissing his way down my chest, after slowly— _so fucking slowly_ —peeling down those bright blue briefs he’d loaned me. The way he smiled before taking me into his mouth.

Finally. _Finally._

And the way he laughed when I yanked his hair and pulled him off—because after so long with nothing, his mouth was too warm, too wet, too fucking incredible. The fluttering in my stomach as he crawled back up the bed, knelt down, and whispered, deep and throaty, into my ear.

“Don’t tell me my firebreather’s about to blow already.”

The uncontrollable laughter from both of us when I accidentally shoved him off the bed.

All of it. It was all so much. So fucking much.

Fuck. _Fuck_. I forgot how much _fun_ this could be.

How much fun it was _supposed_ to be.

Even once we got our laughter under control, as muffled giggles turned to moans and pants, as Sander once again went to work on my neck—sending shots of pain followed by constant echoes of pleasure—it never stopped being fun. He never stopped smiling at me, teasing me playfully with his fingers. Light strokes and playful touches all accompanied by grins that just made everything better. Hotter. Sexier.

I tried to flip him onto his back, to take control, but he stopped me easily. Looking me up and down with a quirked brow—challenging, teasing—before pinning my wrist to the pillow next to my head.

Fuck, I need to start working out.

“Tell me what you want,” I grinned as he held himself above me, as his knees worked themselves between mine.

“I think I’m supposed to be the one to ask that,” Sander bent down, pressing a quick kiss to my swollen lips, my flushed cheek. “Tell me what you want, Robbe.”

His voice was husky when he said my name. Deep and solid and earthshakingly beautiful.

I took a moment to glance down between us. At his solid chest. At his strong stomach. At his pleasantly sizable dick—no point in beating around the bush, it was beautiful. It was all beautiful. 

The only disappointment was that pubes weren’t white like the hair on his head.

“I asked first.”

“Sassy fucker,” he grinned, shifting forward and pushing my legs apart at the same time. “Fair enough, though. I want you. Robbe.”

It was a whisper. And a demand. And a request all at once. His lips tickling the edge of my ear as his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

Fuck, I could listen to him say my name like that for-fucking-ever.

“I want you to fuck me,” my voice came out as a croak as Sander ground himself against my hip. It was a request. And a demand.

“Anything for you,” he whispered and my heart stuttered for some reason, warmth flooding my chest as he hiked up my legs. “Anything for my firebreather.”

Fuck.

And it wasn’t exactly perfect. I was tight. Tighter than I used to be. Even as Sander worked me over reverently with his warm tongue and strong fingers, I had trouble relaxing. Whether from excitement or anxiety or anticipation, I couldn’t tell. But he was patient. Strangely patient. Like there was no rush, no needs of his own he wanted to have met—even as I could see that need throbbing against his sheets.

And he went slow. So slow I could have died. Rolling down the condom like he was purposefully trying to tease me, pushing firm and steady and _slow_ into me. Into me. Into me. Filling me up. So full. So slowly.

“You ready?” He smiled, and finally, I could see the strain behind his eyes. Could see how much he was controlling himself as he carefully wrapped his hand around me. “You ready?”

And for an instant, I wasn’t sure. Something about this, about the way he was looking at me, about the way his hand spread across my ribs and cradled my side, it felt so soft. Too soft. Too much.

And then he shifted, and I felt him throb inside me, and I could barely hold back from wrapping my legs around his waist pulling him closer.

“Fuck. Yes. I’ve been ready for two fucking months you asshole.” I gasped as he shifted again. “Please.”

And that was all it took.

It wasn’t exactly perfect. We didn’t finish together, calling out each others’ names, or anything like that. I wanted it to last forever, but I could barely last five minutes. With the squeeze of his hand, the thrust of his hips, that undeniable warmth began to grow in the pit of my stomach faster than I wanted. Faster than I could control.

And he could tell. I knew could tell—he kept looking at me, smirking as my eyes fluttered shut, as my whines and moans escalated in pitch, as he gave me exactly, _exactly_ what I wanted. Bending forward to nip quickly at my lips, pressing his thumbs into the divots of my hips. I could see it in his eyes, how much he was enjoying it. Hear it in his voice, as he whispered in my ear, how badly he wanted to make me lose control.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

And he got exactly what he wanted. Me, stuttering and whining into this neck as I finished all over his hand. As he fucked me harder than I thought possible. Until I couldn’t take anymore—until I sagged onto the mattress with shaky breaths. It was… _fuck_ it was so much and not nearly enough all at once.

And Sander was just smiling at me. Not even disappointed—smiling as he pressed one more brutal kiss to my lips, as he pulled out slowly and fell onto the pillows next to me, as I watched him finish himself off. Because—fuck. Even as exhausted and spent as I was, he was still so incredibly sexy. Watching him do that to himself was so incredibly sexy.

And as he leaned over, breathing heavy, sweat on his brow, I couldn’t help but return the smile. As he kissed me slow and soft, I smiled.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” I agreed.

“Give me an hour,” he muttered, sounding exhausted and ecstatic, sinking against my side, neither of us bothering to clean up.

“For what?” I asked, my heart finally starting to settle. To calm. My energy starting to crash.

“Round two.”

No, it wasn’t exactly perfect.

But it was amazing.

And round two was even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I know I've said it a bunch of times before but I did not plan on this chapter taking as long as it did. Turns out, life just keeps making it difficult. Maybe being under quarantine will actually make me productive at this for once. Really hope you like it, hope it was worth the wait and sorry for making you wait so long anyway.


	6. March On, Dear Boy: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things hadn't been perfect, but they were really fucking good. Astonishingly good. So what is that feeling that's invading Robbe's every waking moment, invading his senses, invading his memory? What, exactly, is the fucking deal?

_It was the feeling of arms draped over my waist that was the first thing my drowsy brain recognized. Strong arms. Arms and hands that had been so gentle, so unforgiving the night before. That had drawn things out of me that I didn't know were there. That has pushed and twisted and gripped so fucking good. Hands that sculpted my—_

_Fuck, don't tell Jens how poetic I get after a good fuck. He'd never let me live it down._

_But it had been a good fuck. Really good. Really fucking good. I could still feel it in the way my body, my hips ached at my tiniest readjustments. Shit, it might just have been the best I'd ever had._

_Not that I would ever tell anyone else that._

_He was still sleeping beside me. I could feel his chest rhythmically rise and fall against my side. Could hear his breathing—not quite silent, not all the way at a snore—right next to my ear. And I wanted to lay there forever. Just keep my eyes closed, let my skin soak up the slowly creeping sun as it forced its way between the curtains. Just be warm and comfortable and held and amazingly well fucked._

_But as I was preparing myself to settle into that plan, a little alarm went off in a corner of my mind. A reminder. A tiny little—shit._

_Shit!_

_It's Monday!_

_Monday, and—according to the clock on the bedside table—I was absolutely going to be late!_

_I tried to sneak my way out of the bed, my mind distracted as it struggled to remember where my clothes had ended up. And my wallet. And my phone. I wanted to avoid the whole... walk of shame thing. The awkwardness. The uncomfortable staring. Or pretending not to stare. That's what it's called, right? That's what Moyo calls it at least. And that awkwardness was what I wanted to avoid. Unfortunately..._

_"Hey..."_

_Shit. Shit. Shit-fuck-shit._

_Slowly, hopefully not-awkwardly, I finished pulling on what I was pretty sure was my underwear._

_Fuck._

_"Hey," I forced a smile, forced some fake casualness, and carefully turned around. Just in time to see the sheets fall away from his shoulders as he sat up, revealing that sculpted chest and, uh... the ring of maybe-bite marks I might have left around his right nipple._

_And—holy fuck!—I'd hit the fucking jackpot._

_From his sculpted torso—the sheet just barely low enough to show the dip of his hipbone—to those broad shoulders, the chiseled chin, and that snow-white hair, he—_

_Wait. No. That's not right. That's not..._

_Not white hair. Black._

_David Pauwels had black hair. And it looked messy and amazing and somehow perfect. He always looked so fucking perfect._

_"Don't tell me you're sneaking out already, sexy," he grinned, sleepy, looking to be entirely without shame as he adjusted himself on the bed. As if he hadn't spoken to me at a party for the first time, like... twelve hours prior. As if we both didn't know what the other looked like naked. As if that wasn't essentially the only thing we knew about each other. Other than our names._

_Wait—he did know my name, right?_

_"I've got class," I hedged, trying to sound apologetic as I scanned the floor for my shirt. I was pretty sure it had been green, but there was no green anything to be found on the floor of that dorm room. "I'm already late."_

_"Mmm... You sure?" He stretched out, exposing even more too-tan-for—no... not tan. Pale. Pale, practically unmarred skin. I only realized I was staring when I heard him scoff. "'Cause I heard classes were canceled. The whole university."_

_"I, uh... what?"_

_"Yeah. Big storm coming," his smile looked incredibly fucking dangerous as we both glanced at the clear blue sky outside his window. "You should spend the day with me. Here. To be safe."_

_Oh._

_"Ah..." One more look out the window, at the world and its obligations waiting for me, and I could feel my sense of responsibility start to crumble. Then I glanced back at the bed. The very, very inviting bed. With the very much still-naked, very much still-smiling David Pauwels. And that was pretty much that._

_Fuck it._

_It's not like I could find my clothes anyway._

_"Fine." I nodded, shaking my head as that smile grew. "Fine. For safety. But... only—only if you can tell me what my name is. Right now."_

_Look, I have to have some level of standards, right? One night stands are excusable—I mean, it's college—but if it's gonna extend into the morning..._

_"Wow. Wow, I feel like I should be offended," he laughed, shaking his head. "Luckily for both of us, I never forget a pretty face. Ro—"_

"—bbe. Robbe! Shit—no, hey, it's just me!"

The first thing I noticed as I jolted awake was that it was cold. Very fucking cold. Covered by nothing but a very light sheet—a glance at the empty bed beside me showed that the pile of warm comforters and blankets had somehow ended up in a single bundle next to me—I could barely feel my fucking toes. Who the fuck keeps a room that cold, and where the—

Shit! Shit. Right.

Standing surprisingly still at the side of the bed, Sander was fully dressed, fully awake, and looking at me with a not-small amount of concern as I tried to orient myself, to remember what the fuck was going on and why I was awake at fucking... 6:30? That's half an hour earlier than normal. I took another look at him—he was not only awake but actually looked _alert_ somehow—at the hole-ridden sweater he'd apparently put back on, at the apron and the smile and the hair and...

Why was I suddenly feeling... what the fuck had I been dreaming about?

All I could remember was this faintly familiar... ache. And discomfort.

"Sorry, if I, uh... surprised you," my eyes shot back up to find Sander chewing at his bottom lip. "I don't _really_ know when you usually wake up. But, uh... breakfast is ready."

What?

"Wha...?" I rubbed at my eyes—at my whole face, really—hoping that might clear the fog that seemed to have settled into my mind. But no. The fog did not want to leave and neither did that feeling in my gut.

"Breakfast? French toast?" Sander offered helpfully, giving my sleep-addled brain a bit of a jog. "Cause I make a... I mean, there's coffee, too, if you..." I could hear his hesitation as I rubbed at my eyes again. Heard him sigh, followed by an almost silent-chuckle.

"Yeah. Let's get you some coffee."

++++++++++++++++++++++++

That looming discomfort, and ache, and overall weirdness still hadn't dissipated by the time I slumped into a chair with a steaming mug of coffee. In front of me, I could see Sander moving purposefully around the kitchen—turning off the stove, filling two glasses with water and gathering the silverware—as if it wasn't way too fucking early in the morning. I had no way to tell how long he'd been up, but I was pretty sure it had been a while. Aside from the surprisingly beautiful plate of french toast he set down in front of me, I'd also awoken to find all my clothes—clean and dried and folded—sitting next to my bag.

I couldn't fully remember falling asleep. The end of the night was a bit of a blur. I remembered the rest of things—Sander's admission over dinner, the movie, and most definitely the sex. And then the second round of sex. But after that, things were a bit fuzzy. I'm pretty sure I'd been in a good mood, though. An amazing mood, actually. I vaguely remember the feeling of having Sander's warmth pressed tight against my back, his arm around my chest, his steady breathing lulling me to...

So if that's all that had gone down, why did I feel so weird all of a sudden?

Maybe I just needed caffeine?

"This looks, uh.... wow." 

"I know, right?" Sander grinned as he gracelessly fell into the chair next to me. "Didn't know you were... sleeping with a classically trained chef, did you?"

I could hear the sense of humor in his voice, even as tired as I still felt. I knew he was joking. I just...

"Right."

And then for a few minutes, the only sound was silverware scraping against plates and coffee mugs being set against the table.

Not for lack of trying, on Sander's account. And that, in combination with the fact that the french toast really was _amazingly good_ —like, amazingly rich, creamy insides; crisp toasted outsides; served with fucking freshly-made whipped cream; I mean, _come on_ —just made me feel worse. Because there was that pit in my stomach. The one that had been there since I woke up—actually, no. The one that had been there since Sander gave me his clothes and suggested we have a night in. Growing, and growing. Strengthening. Becoming more uncomfortable.

And, honestly, kept me from being very hungry. For french toast, or for conversation.

"What do you think? Good, right?"

"So, do you have anything special going on at work today?"

"What's your schedule look like for the rest of the week?"

All I could do was nod and shrug and just... no. Something just felt off. Sounded off. Even the beautiful breakfast Sander had prepared tasted... off.

"Well, I hate to eat and run," I pretended to sound conflicted, pretended to sound light and humorous as I put my fork down on the half-eaten plate, "but I really have to get going to work."

"Oh. Are you good? Do you, uh, know what buses to take? I can get Senne to hurry back with the car if you want me to—"

"No, yeah, I, um... I have an app. Thingy. I mean—I can figure it out." At least the way Sander was trying to be helpful didn't make me feel weird. Finally, something that sat comfortably in my gut. But it wasn't enough. I just wanted to move on with my day—try to outrun this ache in my stomach. "Thanks, though."

"Yeah—no problem. I mean..." I felt bad that Sander seemed a bit confused as I stood up and disappeared to grab my bag. Felt guilty. I mean, I was like 90-percent sure that what I was feeling wasn't actually his fault. But still. "If you get lost, let me know. I'm taking the day off, anyway. Happy to swoop in and save you."

"Yeah, I, uh..." I shook my head as I shrugged my bag onto my shoulders. Taking the day off—must be a pretty sweet benefit of running his own business. The only days I'd taken off since starting this job were three days when I was sick. "Thanks. And thanks for, uh..." there's not really a good way to say _'thanks for the orgasms,'_ is there? "Yeah. I'll let you know."

And then the silence just started to feel awkward. So... time to go.

"Wait, Robbe!" I was halfway toward the stairs when I heard Sander call my name, turned around to see him leaning against his doorframe with his hands behind his back, suddenly back to being the picture of confidence. A lazy smile, relaxed shoulders, head tilted back against the door. Why did that make the pit in my stomach twist and churn even harder? "You, uh... you look really good. Dressed all business-like."

I paused to glance down at my slacks, and belt, and the one button-up I owned that actually fit well.

I mean... I guess?

"Oh. Uh... thanks."

And then with a shrug, I turned and went down the stairs.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 **Sander:** _are these yours?_

I chewed at the side of my thumb as I tried to decide the best way to respond to what was absolutely a picture of my favorite pair of underwear. You know how it goes, right? Some pairs of briefs just get that perfect level of worn-in, and soft, and they sit around your junk just right? And the good ones hold things in such a way that they make it look like you're really fucking—look, they're just my favorite pair of underwear. Okay?

And if staring at a picture of your favorite underwear on another man's bedsheets during lunch wasn't weird enough, the fact that it was the first attempt from either Sander or I to contact each other in more than three days was...

Okay. Maybe something somewhere had gotten out of hand.

It had started with just wanting to get some distance from the weird-ass way my gut was reacting to having spent the night at Sander's. That's fair, right? I figured, give me a day to digest what was going on in my head, and then everything could go back to normal. To the way they'd been the last two months, at least.

But it's hard to get through a weirdness when you have no idea what's causing it.

And it's hard to figure out what's causing it when just trying to think about it made everything feel even worse.

I mean, it's not like Sander had done anything weird. He'd been, if anything, a perfect gentleman. Fuck, he even made a point of making sure I came first—both times! So, it wasn't like he as a creep, or anything like that.

But I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off. That I'd made some sort of mistake. Honestly—yeah, it felt like I had done something wrong. I just didn't know what it could possibly be!

It wasn't the sex—that had been great. Well worth the wait.

It wasn't the bipolar thing. I swear. I mean, there was a bit of weirdness flaring up in my chest when I thought back to his admission, but I swear. That's not something I would ever let make me feel weird. That would just be... hypocritical isn't the right word, but the sentiment is there.

So it wasn't that.

All I know is that when I woke up in Sander's bed, I felt weird. And when I left his apartment, I felt weirder. And every time I went to text him, or call him, or just think about him over the next few days... it got worse, and worse, and worse.

So that's why I hadn't reached out to him in days. That's how I ended up not speaking to him until he sent me that question—that picture of my underwear—Friday at lunch. It wasn't Sander's fault at all—it was entirely on me.

Fuck. I'm the asshole here, aren't I?

I hated that part of me wanted to just not respond. I mean, it was my favorite pair of underwear but it's not like they were life-changing or anything. They were just underwear. And Sander was just a guy who lived on the other side of the country from me. 

Except, no. They were _really_ good underwear.

And Sander...

Shit.

 **Robbe:** _Yeah! I didn't realize I'd left them._

To be completely honest, I felt lost. And confused. And sort of angry at myself.

And still, unfortunately, I felt weird. It was just... sitting in my gut. This dense, heavy weight that seemed to twist uncomfortably every time I thought about my night with Sander. Which had been a lot over the past few days.

 **Sander:** _want me to bring them to you? what time do you leave today?_

 **Robbe:** _My train leaves at 6:15._

I shoved the remainder of my salad to the other side of the table, my appetite having quickly disappeared.

 **Sander:** _I can be at your hotel by 530._

I sighed to myself, shook my head. Tried to push past the weirdness. Anyway, that wasn't enough time. The bus to the train station left at—

 **Sander:** _I can drive you to the train station._

Oh. Right. Well then.

For the underwear. Right?

 **Robbe:** _Okay. See you at 5:30._

And then, because, despite my stomach feeling like it was trying to squirm its way out of me, there was a part of my brain that realized my whole body was just being incredibly stupid:

 **Robbe:** _Thanks_

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

There's probably no real way to do an underwear handoff that _isn't_ awkward, but if there is, the uncomfortable, stilted interaction between Sander and myself definitely wasn't it. I mean, the general reason for him being there didn't help—awkwardly accepting my folded underwear from him and then shoving it into my suitcase wasn't exactly smooth—but even past that, something just felt... stale. It felt like the bubble of funny, comfortable space the two of us had inhabited every other time we'd interacted had been... popped.

I thanked him. He made a lame joke about figuring they were important. I tried not to imagine the other jokes he could have made—about me wearing them. About him wearing them. And then he helpfully put my bags in the trunk of his car, and...

Did I mention he drove a BMW? Like, a real, recent BMW? For some reason that made me feel a tinge weirder about this whole ordeal.

"You excited to get home?"

Sander's voice broke through the silence of the car as he waited at a red light. The train station was only a few blocks away—I could see it at the end of the street—and there was a part of me that was annoyed that he hadn't just let the awkward quiet survive the whole trip.

But then I reminded myself that I knew better. That this wasn't his fault.

That I was the asshole in this situation.

"Yeah," I shrugged instead of making my frustration and discomfort obvious. "It's nice to have the whole week with my friends and my Mama and my own bed."

"Honestly, I don't know how to do it." I looked over and realized Sander hadn't taken his eyes off the road, completely focused on the car in front of him as they waited for the light to turn green. "Taking so much time away. I mean, even if I didn't have the Foundation, it's just... it'd be tough. I guess."

That made my stomach churn even harder. Why. Why did hearing that feel so weird? So upsetting?

"Yeah, it's tough." I shrugged again, resisting the urge the curl up in the passenger seat. And then suddenly feeling the need to preempt the incoming silence. "Makes everything feel... disconnected, I guess? It's hard when your time is split between four places but your entire life is in just one of them."

And then the silence came anyway.

"So, why do you do it?" Sander asked, finally, as if that could possibly be a simple question.

And I prepared myself to answer with my usual response, but my mouth moved before my brain could finish.

"I dunno," I gulped around the sudden lump in my throat. "I don't know what I'd be doing otherwise."

And that, more than anything else so far, made my gut twist like a tornado. All while the light turned green and the car started moving and the rest of the word continued like nothing abnormal was happening inside my body.

I think Sander knew, though. That something was happening, I mean. Because he stayed quiet all the way until he came to a stop outside the train station.

"Thanks. For the ride, I mean."

I paused for a moment for Sander's response. To be polite. And when he didn't say anything I turned to take off my seatbelt, and leave the car, and hopefully the entirety of this awkwardness altogether. Except...

"Yeah, I, um—actually... wait."

I reality, I simply hesitated with my hand on the door handle. But in my head... in my head, there was a flash of light. A scene cut. A fade to black. I felt my heart seize like it was being squeezed by a fucking fist. Because I knew what was coming. I knew that talk. The one where we talk about how my irrationality has fucked things up, and even if it wasn't what I wanted to happen he was done with... fuck. Fuck! I didn't want that!

Oh, God... I didn't want that. Shit—no!

"Robbe, before you... I'm not..." Sander sighed. And I sighed, even though inside it felt like my head was exploding. "I'm not usually any good at this um... at communicating stuff. In words. But I—'cause that's like the only way for this to... work. Right?"

This? Work?

I felt my stomach lurch. But, for the first time in days, it wasn't that weird discomfort that I'd been feeling since I woke up in Sander's bed. It was... fuck, it was full-on distress. A bit of confusion but mostly this huge burst of anxiety because... 

Not because I was thinking about Sander. I was thinking about _fucking things up_ with Sander. And I just...

I don't even have the energy to figure out what that means.

"Anyway, are we... I mean, is everything good?"

I wonder what was going through his head as I sat there, hand frozen on the handle of his car door. He looked so... composed. Sad. Disappointed. But nowhere near the maelstrom of turmoil I felt suddenly rushing through my head, and chest, and gut. 

"Yes!" It burst out my lips before I could temper my voice. "I... I mean—yeah. We're... we're good."

Did he have this same fear as me? That he'd fucked this up? Or did he know it was me who was the disaster? If he was scared at all, he wasn't showing it. Did that mean he understood what was going on here better than...

What... what _was_ going on, here? 

Between Sander and me—what was...

"Because..." He sighed again, and finally looked away from me for the first time since we'd pulled up to the station. "Look. If you're not okay with me being bipolar, I'd prefer you just say it. Okay? I promise it doesn't make you a bad person, or anything. I get it. Just, it'll be better for both of us if it's just out there. Yeah?"

"No!" My hand slipped from the handle as I just barely kept myself from reaching over to grab his hand off the wheel, where it appeared the be squeezing the leather for all it was worth. "No, Sander, that's not the issue. That's not a problem—"

"Seriously, I understand. It's a lot. You've already seen what can happen, and when I go into a mania it's a whole other... mess. And it's tough. I get it. Okay? I just... I promise, from experience, it'll be easier for us both if you just tell me the truth now."

This time I couldn't stop myself. I don't know if it was the tone of resignation in Sander's voice or this sudden fear that had replaced the discomfort, or a rush of adrenaline, or—whatever it was, I couldn't stop myself from reaching over to grab his wrist. Jostling him, surprising him. Surprising me too.

His skin was warm under my palm, just barely peeking out from under his sweater. And for a second, there was just quiet. And breathing.

"I know it's a lot," I whispered once my heart had taken a moment to calm. I gave Sander a moment to look back at me, and I wasn't surprised to see him looking doubtful. "I... my mom was diagnosed as schizophrenic when I was nine."

I didn't let myself pause, even when I noticed his stare soften. It felt too important to continue. For Sander. For...

"She's been hospitalized six times since then. She takes meds, she's had episodes, she... look, I don't want to..."

"Yeah, no, no. I..."

"But I want you to trust me," I said in as calm a voice as I could muster, squeezing his wrist gently, "when I say that I understand what you're saying. I see it, okay? And it's not a problem."

In the moment of silence that passed, I probably could have put some thought into that intense need to reassure Sander I was feeling. Into that surge of fear I felt when I was faced with my fuckup. But that... that was too much to think about.

"Robbe..."

It came out so soft, and the way my heart ached... it probably should have been more terrifying.

"I just got freaked out, okay? I haven't even figured out why, yet. Sometimes my head just goes..." I brought my fingers up to my head and mimicked an explosion. "Fucking... Chernobyl. Total meltdown. But it's _my_ head. Okay? It's not you."

"I really..." I listened as Sander let out a shaky breath, then watched as he seemed to think better of something. "Okay."

"I swear."

"Okay," he nodded.

"Just give me a few more days to figure it out, and I promise I'll be back to my normal, annoying self." I waited until Sander showed a shaky grin. Until he let out a breathy laugh. "And Sander?"

"Hmm—?"

I leaned forward as fast as I could to press a quick, firm kiss to those lips. They were so warm. So soft.

"What about... Chernobyl?" he asked, leaning back against his seat, hand stopping before it could reach my own.

And for a moment my stomach lurched with that discomfort once again. My brain throwing a dozen alarms that made it impossible to figure out what the problem was. Just this ache. This familiar... empty discomfort. And it was intense, so fucking intense. But I pushed it down. For the moment. Long enough to smile.

"Fuck Chernobyl."

Sander responded with a smile of his own, and I kept it together. Long enough for him to hesitate before sitting up straight, before grasping the steering wheel tightly with both hands.

"Fuck Chernobyl."

I kept it together long enough to grab my bags. To smile after Sander and I awkwardly didn't hug. To walk slowly and methodically into the train station, and onto the concourse, and then into the nearest bathroom.

And then I sprinted to the first empty stall I could find and vomited, and retched, and heaved until it was time to get on my train.

Fuck Chernobyl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i'm sounding like a broken record, but sorry this took so long! I always have trouble getting out chapters where there's unnecessary awkwardness. But I guess this really is necessary. Robbe's a little bit damaged, y'all. Then again, so is Sander. Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait!


	7. March On, Dear Boy: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe's head is in a weird place right now. With his friend. With his family. With his ex. I mean...
> 
> Yeah. What's a guy supposed to do?

"So—hold on, hold on, hold on. You honestly expect us to believe this fantasy of yours!"

The bar was crowded, filled with university students enjoying their weekend and some rowdy sports fans at the front, but the six of us had been able to secure a small table at the back to fend off the jostling crowd.

"Dude, if you don't believe me, believe your girlfriend," I glanced over at Jens as he leaned across the table toward Moyo. He looked fairly self-confident, a little drunk, and... surprisingly adult. When had he started cutting his hair so short? "Noor saw the whole thing!"

"Hmm? I saw what, now?" Noor turned quickly from her side conversation with Amber as the rest of the table broke out into teasing laughter.

When I first started traveling for work, my friends had put a lot of effort into having at least one day every weekend where we all got together. Mostly it was just us _Broerrs_ , but sometimes Amber or Noor joined their boyfriends, and sometimes the entire friend group from university—those that hadn't moved away from Antwerp—showed up for a night at the bar, or someone's apartment, or just a random park in the middle of the city. Even Yasmina would show up occasionally.

The past few months, though, it had become significantly rarer that the whole group could get together. Or even most of the group. Noor almost always had shows she had to prepare for. Something had gone down between Jana and Jens that I wasn't privy to, and it was impossible to get them both in the same place. Then Amber wasn't a huge fan of bars, and so that meant Aaron also wasn't a huge fan of bars. And just... life stuff. Life kept getting busier. For everyone.

It had been almost a month since I saw Jens in person. Almost two since I'd seen Noor.

I mean...

Fuck.

"On Wednesday. Remember? You helped me find a gift for my sister at your store, right? That other girl who works there—Rachel? She was flirting with me!"

"Rachel..." Noor squinted across the table as Jens sat back expectantly. Beside her, I could see Amber roll her eyes and start poking Aaron's side. "There's no... wait. Do you mean Ruth?"

"Yes! Rachel, Ruth—I suck with names, but that doesn't change the fact that I know she wanted the _full_ Stoffels experience."

"And having seen him trying to flirt recently, _I_ know he's being fucking delusional," Moyo threw in, leaning over to tap my shoulder as if we were sharing some sort of conspiracy.

"Wait, recently?" I joked. "Since when has he ever been smooth?"

"Uh, fuck you." Jens shoved me hard enough that I almost fell into Moyo's shoulder. "I've been the smoothest motherfucker you've known since we were fifteen goddamn years old."

"Dude, you haven't been able to get a chick—" I laughed as Noor quickly reached over to slap the back of Moyo's head, "—a _woman's_ number since New Years! Smooth my ass—you're worse at it than Aaron!"

"Not that I've, uh, tried to get any girls' numbers," Aaron quickly interjected. Beside him, Amber was starting to get this impatient glare on her face—and _God,_ my friends are good at making me glad I'm not straight.

"Fuck you, and fuck you," Jens pointed at everyone around the table, "Noor, please, tell your boyfriend what happened. C'mon. I bet she had some questions about me after I left, right?"

Noor, who had been sitting back with a faint smile on her lips for the majority of this exchange, finally leaned against the table. 

"Oh, yeah. Definitely," she nodded, and it didn't take an emotional genius to hear the sarcasm in her voice. "Yeah, you know—how old you were, how much money you make... oh! And she wanted to know why there was that strong, _minty-fresh_ smell coming from your crotch."

Oh, fuck. Everyone at the table—except Jens and Amber, who looked mostly confused—let out a quick, uncontrollable burst of laughter. And the laughter continued even as Moyo held his hand up in fake innocence as if there was anyone else who might have told Noor about Jens's obsession with... dental hygiene.

"No, dumbass. Ruth has a wife and two kids—she wasn't fucking flirting with you."

More laughter broke out as Jens sputtered, disbelieving. Fuck, I wish I could have seen this all happen live.

"I... but—fuck! She winked at me! And... then why did she give me one of the bracelets for free!"

"She's a salesperson, dumbass, she was just being nice," Moyo pushed out around some more laughter.

"It was probably just a mistake," Noor added, leaning into Moyo as they both continued to laugh. "I told her to give you my employee discount. She's new—she probably just fucked it up."

"No! But..."

"Honestly, Jens," Amber leaned forward, shaking her head derisively. "If you just stopped assuming that every woman in the world was attracted to you, then..."

Based on what I know about Amber, her lecture probably did not end there. But there's no way for me to accurately report what she said after that. Because that was right around the time I stopped paying any attention to what was happening around our little table. 

Amber and Jens and Noor's voices all disappeared into the background as my eyes caught sight of the two people who had suddenly pushed their way to the back of the bar—just a few feet from us. One of them was completely unfamiliar, a skinny blonde guy who looked like the type of kid who'd get plastered off a single strong cocktail. But it was his companion, the guy whose hand was resting shamelessly on the curve of the blonde' ass, who set off alarm bells in my head.

It had been nine months since I'd seen that black hair, that perfectly pale skin. That chiseled face. At least, in person.

It had been nine months since I'd seen David Pauwels. And that wasn't nearly long enough.

Nine months since he kicked me out of his apartment with a shrug. Nine months since he ended things. Nine months since he—

"What's that fucker doing here?"

It was Jens's voice, soft but pissed-off at the same time as he leaned over to mutter in my ear, that broke me out of my focus. Fuck. As soon as I brought my focus back to the table in front of me, I saw that my friends had all transitioned to chatting about a double-date Amber was saying would be an 'amazing idea.'

Which... good.

"Free fucking country, I guess." I took a swig of my beer and then glanced over at my best friend. We hadn't spoken a _ton_ about my breakup with David. I hadn't told much of anyone about what had gone down between us. But he had definitely seen me drunkenly rant about the asshole more than once, so the level of friendly concern I saw when I looked at him wasn't much of a surprise.

"You wanna get out of here?"

"Nah." I shrugged. I mean, this was inevitable, right? Two guys the same age in the same city—it was inevitable that I would see him eventually. Honestly, it was amazing the good times had lasted as long as they had.

"You sure?" Jens whispered, looking around at everyone's mostly empty drinks. It probably was the perfect time to dip out before anyone else even realized why. 

But there were already enough places across the city that I'd let my ex taint with his memory. I wasn't about to—

"Oh, shit. Robbe. Isn't that your ex?"

Right. Thanks, Aaron.

"Ugh," Noor scoffed immediately, and I wondered if she had already noticed him without saying anything. "Shameless asshole."

"Huh? Where? What's he..." Moyo sat up, head swiveling to glance around the bar, before freezing to stare way too long and way too obviously at David. "Oh."

"Uh... maybe," I shrugged, pretending to focus on finishing my beer. "I dunno."

"Honestly, I know it's a bit late, but I just... always hated that guy," Noor shook her head, finishing her own drink dramatically before turning to me with a sympathetic frown.

"Uh... Thanks. I guess." I muttered, still not looking up from my now-empty glass. 

"Really?" Aaron asked, sounding confused. "He was always cool to me. Bought us booze, got us into parties... I mean, what even happened with—ow! What the hell, babe!"

I looked past Amber as she gave her boyfriend the evil eye, letting my eyes wander—against my will—back to David. He had shifted positions, now pressed against the back of his new twink as he casually ordered from the bartender. Smiling and chatting as if he wasn't shamelessly grinding against that other guy's ass while they talked—which I know for a fact is exactly what he was doing. That was always his favorite way to make me feel awkward when we were out in public. Make me feel uncomfortable.

It was making me feel uncomfortable just watching it.

"No, he was a fucking asshole," Noor responded once it was clear that I wouldn't, her voice getting a little bit louder every few words. "We barely saw Robbe for two years because of him. Him and his... fucking asshole-ness."

At the bar, I watched as David leaned in and began to nibble on the blonde's ear, press a kiss to his neck, and I felt my stomach drop. Partially because of how weird this felt, but mostly because of the memories. The vivid, fucking sensory memories that were pushing themselves to the front of my mind. Of countless nights in bars—on the occasions he wanted us to go out—of countless times I'd felt like the entire world was staring at me, judging me, knowing exactly what was going through my head. All the times he would lean in, and whisper—

"I guess? But I mean it's not like—"

"I think I'm gonna get going."

As quietly, as quickly possible, I stood up from my stool, wincing slightly when it squealed as I pushed back. But at least I felt pretty confident he wouldn't be looking up from his newest sex toy any time soon. He usually didn't pay that much attention to anything other than himself.

"Oh, Robbe," Amber frowned, elbowing Aaron once again as I grabbed my phone and wallet.

"Actually," Jens stood almost as quickly as I had, shrugging on his jacket at the same time I did. "I'm gonna head out, too. Moyo, see you at work tomorrow?"

"Uh... Shit, yeah, man. See you."

There were a few more goodbyes—all of them felt a little awkward, especially Noor when she squeezed me tight and apologized for something that obviously wasn't her fault—but in a few minutes I was pushing my way through the bar's door, into the muddled, cool air of downtown Antwerp.

The bar was pretty far from my apartment—a new place suggested by Moyo and Noor with the promise of especially cheap cocktails—but now that I wasn't distracted by the prospect of a badly-needed night with friends, I was realizing that the neighborhood looked familiar. A bit too familiar. In fact... it was the adult book store at the end of the street with the immediately recognizable neon sign that sealed the familiarity in my brain.

I was maybe three blocks away from the apartment David and I were supposed to move into together. Before...

"Hey. You okay, man?" I glanced at my side and there was Jens, a light blush already appearing on his cheeks from the sudden change of temperature. He still looked concerned, which was both expected and also the last thing I wanted to deal with at that moment. At any moment, really.

"Yeah," I shrugged, scratching at the back of my head as I started walking... somewhere. I just needed to move. Away from the bar.

I'd grab a cab home later.

"Hey, I mean fuck that guy," Jens half-laughed as he kept pace behind me, "but I do think it's pretty freaking hilarious that he's obviously not over you."

Um... 

"What?"

That's a... weird thing to joke about.

"We were seeing the same thing, right? He was totally putting on a show for you." Jens hopped forward, making sure I could see his smile and overwhelming disgust. He wore it well. "And that other guy he was with? Looked _just_ like you in a blonde wig!"

"No," I shook my head, stopped to check for oncoming cars before jogging across the street. "No, he..."

Okay, maybe that guy sort of looked like me. But so what. David had a type.

"He didn't even know I was there. If he had, it would have been a hell of a lot more obvious. Besides. He was fuckin'... over me before we even broke up."

"Uhuh..." I could hear the doubt and sarcasm in Jens's voice, and I'll admit it pissed me off a little.

"And even if he wasn't," I spun around, apparently catching Jens off-guard. "why the fuck would I care?"

"Exactly. Because you're completely over him. Right?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Fucking, of course, I am."

Of course, I am.

"Of course you are. So... that means you're ready to get out there again. Right?" Jens sounded skeptical as I once again began leading the two of us to no destination in particular—I mostly just wanted to lead us away from this conversation.

I mean, it's not like this was the first time he'd brought this up.

"That has nothing to do with... anything." 

"Good," he reached out, throwing a hand over my shoulder. "Because there's this new guy at my work I think you might like. Lucas, he's from the Netherlands."

"Jens..."

"Dude, no, seriously. You can ask Moyo. And—I'm not fucking around here—even I think he's pretty. And I'm mostly straight."

"Mostly straight?" I rolled my eyes. God. Fuck. These were the kinds of jokes that would send me into a spiral of self-doubt and false hope when I was sixteen. Now...

"At least," Jens pulled me closer to his side, apparently unable to keep from breaking out into a grin. "But seriously, man. I could set you up. I can handle the whole thing—all you have to do is take a shower and show up where I tell you to."

"Ah... Not interested." I shook my head, unable to stop myself from thinking. About David. About Sander. I mean, not that it was either of their business. But still.

Just discussing it felt... wrong.

Which felt... dumb.

"Robbe. Robbe! Come on! You've gotta stop denying the men of Antwerp! You're a fucking catch, dude!"

"I just don't want to meet a—" _another_ "—random guy, man. I've already got—" _Sander_ "—enough going on. Besides," I sighed, "how exactly am I supposed to date a guy when I'm never even here? Who would want to put up with that? It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Behind me, I heard Jens sigh, and I was fairly confident he was shaking his head in frustration. I tend to have that effect on him.

"Dude. There's nothing wrong with putting yourself out there and seeing if anything bites."

"Dude," I echoed, turning to stare at him as defiantly as possible. "There's also nothing wrong with _not_ doing that."

For a moment we continued walking, eyes locked, arms thrown around each other's shoulders as we maneuvered around a few people saying farewell on the sidewalk. We made it all the way to the end of the block before eventually we had to stop, before the comfortable tension was broken with a sigh. Jens's sigh.

"Fine. Whatever. As long as you're happy, yeah? Just don't turn into some sort of spinster old man, dude. Promise?" He shook his head, finally releasing my shoulder to give me a friendly shove. "David's not worth that bullshit."

"David has nothing to do with it," I lied.

"That's good," and he pretended to believe me. "So... want to go back to my place? I have a few beers left over from last weekend with your name on them."

"Yeah," I nodded, pulling out my phone to get us a ride. "Wait, what happened last weekend?"

++++++++++++++++++++++

 **Sander:** _hey hows it going_

 **Sander:** _you study that Bowie playlist yet?_

I stared at my phone until it went dead in my lap, and sighed.

Five days. Five days since Sander had dropped me off at the train station. Five days since I promised him I only needed a few days to undo the meltdown happening in my brain. Five days since I had let myself think about what that promise really meant.

And yet, there I sat, on the couch next to Milan as he tearily watched a twenty-year-old romance movie, with my brain still completely fucked. And then there was Sander, having given me a perfectly reasonable _five days_ to figure out my shit, sending me a text that still made my stomach do a fucking salsa dance inside my body. Made me suddenly wary of the salad Milan had prepared for the both of us. Made me suddenly realize how screwed I was.

Shit.

"Okay," Milan's voice broke me out of the focus on my phone as he leaned forward to pause the movie. And, lucky me, he already sounded... exasperated. "I've been pretending not to notice your little mopey routine for the past few days. But, seriously? Your sighs are getting loud enough to wake me through the walls."

"Uh..."

"Come on. Let's have a talk. Before I kick you out of the living room for ruining my movie night. What's going on? More boy troubles?"

I looked up with a slow blink. Admittedly, I'm not used to Milan being _that_ direct. Usually he likes to beat around the bush at least a little bit.

"I'll take that as a yes. Okay, well... same boy as last time? No? Or is there someone new that you haven't been telling me about?"

"No, uh..." I tried to swallow down the discomfort in my gut, hide it behind a smile, but I could tell from Milan's raised eyebrow that it didn't work all that well. Fuck.

Fine...

"Same guy," I sighed.

"Oh! Delightful," Milan shook his head before giving me a wry smile. "What was his name again? Manny? Sandy?"

"Sander."

"Right, right. The guy who won't have sex with you—how's _that_ particular issue going?"

Well, Milan, the thing is: he did fuck me. Finally. About a week ago. And then he fucked me again. And it was so fucking _good_ , Milan. It was so fucking good. But the thing that's fucking with my head is that... I could brag for hours about what happened. About his dick, and his body. About how dedicated he was to making me cum. About how good he is with his mouth and his hands. But instead, I keep focusing on this moment in between round one and round two, when he was teasing me. Teasing me about this scratch I left running down his back, and the way my voice had cracked when I told him to fuck me, and in the middle of all that laughter... he fucking burped. In my face. And it smelled like the pepperoni and mushroom pizza we'd had for dinner. And I can't stop _thinking_ about it, Milan. About the way it made my heart go funny in my chest—just for a moment—in between the laughter and me shoving him off the bed for the second time that night. I can't stop thinking about the way I felt... full. My chest felt _full_ of something.

And that's the thing, Milan. Because I can't get it out of my fucking head. And it's making me sick.

"Ah... that's not an issue," is what I said instead. "Not anymore."

"Well, thank God," Milan declared with as much drama as three glasses of wine could impart. "It's about time you broke that dry spell, honey."

"Um... and what does that mean?" I asked, trying and failing to pull away from Milan's grasping hug.

"Oh Robbe. My dear. My love," wow, he can get weird sometimes, "You know I would never criticize your life choices. But..."

"Oh my god."

"You can be a bit much, is all I'm saying!" As Milan spoke, he tightened his increasingly unwanted hug, making it less and less likely that I would be able to escape. "With the staring, and the drooling, and the increasingly loud choices in pornography—"

"Milan!"

"I'm just happy you're getting some!" He laughed and I desperately tried to keep myself from doing the same. But _fuck_ he's surprisingly strong. I couldn't squirm out of his grip no matter what I tried. "That's all!"

"Fuck you!"

"So, was it good?" He asked, finally letting me go with a grin. "Worth the wait?"

"Not that it's any of your fucking business," I muttered, pretending to focus on straightening my shirt. "But yes. It was."

What? Don't look at me like that. I already told you: I've trusted Milan with too many of my secrets to turn back now.

"Best you've ever had?" my roommate teased with a coy grin—and maybe I needed to do a better count of how many glasses he'd drunk.

I took a moment to stare at him, to take an account of the situation as I shifted back to my side of the couch. I knew he could tell I thought he was ridiculous—I could see it in his eyes. And I knew it was only making him more eager.

"No comment," I decided for my non-answer, shaking my head.

"Mhmm," he responded with an eye-roll as he re-situated himself in his corner of the couch, hugging a pillow to his chest in place of... me, I guess. "Well, as long as someone knocks that douchebag ex of yours off the rankings."

I scoffed. Couldn't help it. There was a time, yeah, when I _might_ have thought that David's dick was the solution to all of life's problems.

"Fuck. That selfish prick's not even in the top three."

But that was a long time ago.

"Oh no?" Milan quirked an eyebrow, knowing full well that the number of guys I'd slept with could be counted on one hand. Which was sort of the point.

"Turns out sex is actually supposed to be fun," I muttered, looking down to pick at the hem of my sweater. "Fuck... I think the only reason I thought the sex with David was any good was that... it was the only time he was actually, y'know... nice to me."

Man, how much did _I_ have to drink?

Oh. Nothing? Must be something in the water.

I glanced over at my roommate, my guru, to see an appraising, open look on his face. Maybe the coffee mug of wine he was holding in front of his face helped.

"You know. When we were _having_ sex, that is. I always knew I'd have a day, or an hour, or even just a few minutes where he... acted like he cared. That felt good..." Very quickly, Milan's stare felt like it was little too much, and I found myself looking back down at my hands, that newly-familiar discomfort building itself up in my gut.

Too much. Too fucking much.

"I mean, to be honest," I forced a laugh and a smirk, "I don't think he actually got me off all that many times. So, like... no. Not especially great."

"Hmm." Milan nodded. "Sounds like a douche."

And I knew there were probably a lot of things he was holding back with that statement. A lot of things he'd been holding back for months, ever since the day he'd picked me up from downtown Antwerp, brought me back to his apartment—to this apartment—and walked me through all the reasons my life wasn't over just because of some stupid guy.

One day, I'd have to thank him for his discretion. And for... everything.

"Well, enough about that fuckboy," Milan said with a grin before surging forward into my space once again. "Tell me more about _Sander_..."

++++++++++++++++++++++

"Mama? Mama, are you in there?"

I knocked on her apartment door once again, trying my best not to make my urgency obvious. It wasn't our normal weekend dinner-time—it was Friday afternoon, actually—so I knew there was a chance that she was just... not home. And that I'd been knocking on the door of an empty apartment for the last five minutes. But...

No. Don't think about that. She was fine the last time you saw her. She was _fine_.

"Mama? It's Robbe! Are you—"

My hand fell through the air where the door had just been, stunned surprise keeping me from responding for a few moments as my Mama's drowsy, confused face poked out from her apartment.

"Robbe? What... what are you—is something wrong dear?"

"Mama!" Before I could stop myself, I pushed forward to wrap my arms around her, pulling her out of her dim apartment and into a hug. It was only then that I remembered that I was trying not to act like I was worried. Right. "Wrong? No, uh, what... what would be wrong?"

There was a moment of hesitation in my mother's eyes as I took a step back into the hallway, and I did my best not to hold my breath.

"You're the one showing up at my door unannounced," she muttered after a moment. I watched as she took a sudden deep breath and began to seemingly transform before my eyes. Suddenly standing taller, eyes open wider, taking a moment to brush back her hair. Pushing herself into the posture of someone who wanted to be seen as in control. "You tell me, dear."

The only question is... whether or not that was a lie.

"Just checking in," I hedged. And then, because it would have to be brought up sooner or later. "Helga called me today. She said you, uh... didn't show up for your shift this morning. And weren't answering her calls." I decided not to bring up that she also hadn't been answering _my_ calls. My many, many calls. "She asked me to drop by and make sure you were feeling okay."

We both let out a sigh. Mine, apprehensive. Hers...

There were a lot of unspoken—I don't want to say accusations, but...—things in that statement. Like the fact that Helga wasn't just my Mama's manager, but also a family friend who knew a pretty detailed account of her medical history. And that this was one of the safety nets we had agreed to—for my sanity as much as her well-being—when she decided she wanted to do _some_ work as soon as she'd been cleared by the doctors. The fact that what I was really asking was, well... was something more serious about to come out of this check-in?

Had I missed something the last time we'd had dinner?

Had I...

This sort of thing always made me uncomfortable—even if I was supposedly used to it, and she was supposedly used to it, and everyone in our lives was supposedly used to it. When I had to decide what it was she needed more. A caretaker or a son.

I was never quite sure how she was going to react.

"Well you can tell Helga that I'm feeling much better, thank you," my mom harumphed, crossing her arms over her chest. "And that if she would just check her email, she would see the one I sent last night, letting her know I needed a sick day—I've been in bed asleep with a cold all day."

Ah. So this is one of those _wonderful_ moments where I get to be stared down by my offended mother. Because I chose wrong.

Great.

You know, there's a universe out there where I never took the traveling auditor job. A universe where I never found out that David had been cheating on me for the last six months of our relationship, and I never got filled with the unignorable need to run away from the city that reminded me so much of him. Where he never cheated at all, and never lost interest, and never started treating me like I made his life a living hell just by existing, and—I mean, there's at least one universe like that, right? Where I got a job in Antwerp, and didn't have to spend so much time away from my Mama, so much time out of the loop of her day-to-day life.

And there's a universe where all of that stuff happened anyway—probably, honestly, a lot of universes—but where I moved back in with my Mama instead of with Milan. Saw her every day. And maybe I traveled and maybe I didn't but, in that universe, I knew more. Knew better, when it was my Mama needed me. And when it was she just needed to be herself. _That_ Robbe probably got it right so much more often. That choice between caretaker and son. Because he's there. And I'm not.

And it sucks, but at least there's one Robbe out there who chooses correctly more often than not. Right? At least one Mama IJzermans who's unfamiliar with the tired, but understanding, but still frustrated look my Mama was leveling at me right at that moment.

"Oh. Um... are you feeling any better?" I asked, hoping to push through the awkwardness that I knew was now destined to sit over this entire interaction. "I could go get you some, uh, some soup. If you want."

"I'm fine, dear," she let out a sigh, and I tried not to let it make me feel uncomfortable. "Mr. Tendis next door dropped some stew off last night."

"Right. Well, that's nice of him. I should—"

"I've got everything I need, Robbe. I just need rest. Don't look so worried—your Mama's stronger than she appears. I'll be fine before you're back for Sunday dinner."

"Are you sure?" I asked. Because what if this was just stubbornness. Or pride. Or just a bad response to me choosing wrong _again_. "I don't mind running the store."

"Of course, dear," she nodded, reaching up to cup my cheek—I could feel an unusual warmth coming off her hand, and finally I noticed the flushed cheeks and light sheen of sweat on her forehead. She really was feverish. "I'm sure. Please. Go have a night out with your friends. I'll be fine."

And then she dropped her hand back to her side. And that was the end of it. I mean, she said she was just too tired to chat, but...

She wouldn't let me kiss her goodbye, insisting she didn't want to get me sick, so after squeezing my hand in farewell, she closed the door, and, once again, I was on my own.

It's always uncomfortable when I have to decide. Caretaker or her son. Son or Caretaker. I can never be both. And it's even worse when I get it wrong. I couldn't help noticing the quickness with which she closed her door, the assuredness with which she wanted me gone. It's just... have you ever felt something like this? When all you want to do is help, and do the right thing, and make the right decision, and you fuck it up? And your fuck up makes things worse? Or makes someone trust you less? Or hurts someone you love?

It sucks.

It fucking...

I needed a distraction on my way home—there was no chance of going out that night. My mood was already in a rough state. My head, the confusion that had been plaguing me for days, was only compounded by that look my Mama had given me. It was mixing with that discomfort in my stomach. With how wrong everything felt.

I wanted... I wanted to be alone. I wanted someone to comfort me. I wanted someone to comfort me while leaving me the fuck alone. I wanted...

I pulled up Sander's messages, still unanswered. Still lacking any follow-up. And, on the one hand, it made the stomach ache—the meltdown, the _Chernobyl_ —worse. Just scrolling through all the messages we'd sent each other made it so much worse. But then there was that link to his Spotify playlist. And as much as I could feel my stomach twisting as I sat in the back of that Uber, there was another sensation that was even stronger.

It was the fluttering in my chest. That fullness that threatened to overwhelm and overflow and overrule everything else that was going through my mind. Going through my body. It felt different. It felt _so_ different. And it didn't cancel out that ache in my gut. It didn't even diminish it. In fact, the stronger that fluttering got—when I clicked on the link, when I scrolled through the list of Bowie songs, when I saw that he had titled it 'Bowie quiz, #1 of many,'—the worse my stomach twisted in response. 

And maybe that was okay.

There's a universe out there where I never met Sander Driesen. Maybe. There has to be, right? In order for all those universes to exist where I could be exactly what my Mama needed. A universe where I must not have traveled down to City Number 3, and I must not have gotten drunk in a random bar, and I must not have been approached by a random man with snow-white hair and an internal fire that made me want to burn myself up.

Without putting too much thought into it, I pulled up the first song whose name sounded vaguely familiar. _Space Oddity._ And as a stranger drove me across town and back to my apartment, I did my best to listen to what I thought Sander might want me to hear.

There's a universe out there where I didn't meet Sander Driesen, right? There has to be. At least one.

 **Robbe:** _I just started it today._

 **Robbe:** _I'm a terrible procrastinator._

 **Robbe:** _Do you think I can convince the professor to give me an extension?_

But... to be honest? I'm just glad that's not the universe I live in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This came out fast! I know it might feel a little rushed but I wanted to get it out ASAP! Hope you enjoy! This one was a weird one to write...


	8. April Showers: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there any weirdness for Sander and Robbe after how things got left off last month?
> 
> Well... for one of them. Who knows...
> 
> (cw: sexual content in the second scene)

_The ball's gonna drop. Any day now. Just watch._

"Alright then, Mr. IJzermans. I'm impressed!" Sander laughed as he reached over the center console, pausing the music just as the final note of the song rang out of the car's speakers. 

"I told you I was gonna study. Eventually." I grinned, leaning back into the leather seat in the brief moment of silence as Sander began to flip through songs on his phone. I probably should have been worried about the fact that he wasn't exactly paying attention to the road, but... I was distracted. "So is 80% a passing score, _professor_?"

Distracted by the music. Distracted by the car. Distracted by the way he was chewing at his lip as he scrolled through a list of songs and how it made him look so focused, so serious, so _attractive_.

"For the beginner's course." He looked up just in time to come to a jerky stop a few inches from another car's bumper. "I just might be able to teach you some good taste, after all."

"Fuck off."

"Give me a year," he grinned, already glancing back down at his phone as he waited for the other cars to move. "You'd be amazed at what I can accomplish in a year."

Maybe agreeing to this ride from the train station had been a mistake. Like... an actual, life-threatening mistake. But he'd been such a safe driver last month...

"Assuming we don't die on the way to the hotel."

"I'll have you know—" Sander swerved around a car that was moving too slowly for him, "—that I have a spotless driving record. You're in good hands. Impeccable hands." Without looking away from the road, he reached over and squeezed my thigh in a way that sent a jolt directly to my dick.

And then another, much less pleasant jolt directly to my stomach.

Our plan was essentially last month's plan—dinner, drinks, and then a tour of City Number 3, highlighting the still surviving graffiti that he'd left behind from high school. And then... we would see where the night lead us. The forecast was for clear skies, and—if I had to guess, based on the energetic tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel—Sander was excited. Or nervous. But since I couldn't think of a reason for him to be nervous, I was pretty sure he was just excited. And so was I. Assuming I survived the drive, I got the feeling that this night was more than just a do-over for our plans. It was, like... a fresh start. A chance to undo all the weirdness from the past month.

As for, y'know... Chernobyl?

Well. I was just trying to ignore that.

"I'll make sure they put that in your obituary. 'Sander Driesen, age twenty...four?'" He gave a quick nod after a moment. "'Known for his spotless driving record. Died this Sunday in a twenty-car pileup, for which he was at fault. Pedestrians around the nation are celebrating.'"

All month that had been my tactic. Ignore it. Ignore it without ignoring _Sander_. Because it wasn't his fault that my body and my brain were being stupid. He'd given me the time to work out my shit, and it wasn't his fault that it hadn't been enough. I wasn't going to let him think it was his fault. So, all month, when that feeling became too much, when the urge to throw my phone down and hide in the corner got too strong... I ignored it until I couldn't. And then I took a step back and gave myself a few minutes, or a few hours, or a night to move past it—whatever _it_ was—before going back to pretending there wasn't an issue.

And it worked. At least, it seemed to work. Sander was in a good mood, joking around, shamelessly flirting—a marked improvement over the somber mood from when he dropped me off at the train station.

I really hoped the strategy continued to work in person.

"And Robbe IJzermans," Sander's smile was infectious as he came to a much more measured stop at a red light. "Age twenty-three—"

"Twenty-two," I corrected.

"Twenty-two," Sander nodded, glancing back down at his phone. "So young. Cut short before his time. Died sitting next to the sexiest man he'd ever seen, listening to good music for the first time in his young, young life."

"Fucking..." My exasperation disappeared into laughter as Sander flashed me a smile and started another song.

"Now, what's this one?"

"I..." I sighed, shaking my head as piano and drum machine started pouring out of the car's speakers. "I don't know. I thought we were done!"

"Last one," he grinned, but continued to focus on the road—thank God. "Bonus round. Get this right and I'll give you a special reward tonight."

"Ah..." I tried to ignore the way his voice dropped deeper, ignore the way that got my heart racing, and, after a moment, attempted to focus on the music. It did sound familiar—though I was having trouble placing the heavily accented English words—but not, like... immediately familiar. "I don't... No fair! This wasn't on your 'study list!' Is this even...?"

There was now a chorus of voices for a few words over the old-style electronic beat, the keyboard, the drum (machine?). Fuck. I don't know shit about songs from the 80's.

"That's what makes it the 'bonus round.' C'mon. What's your guess. Time's almost up! I need a name! A name—and if you can get the year too, I won't make you wait 'til after dinner for your prize."

"Sander..."

"Guess! C'mon," he laughed at my whining like... like an asshole, "just give me a guess. Anything."

I could see my hotel coming up at the end of the street, and knew the game was about to come to an end. And I really did want that prize. Whatever it was. Unfortunately...

" _I Try_?" With nothing else to go on, I guessed the first English words I was pretty sure I could make out. "Um, 1980...3?"

"Oh! So close!" Sander cried out in mock disappointment as he pulled into the parking lot on the side of the hotel. "But he can't quite pull it out—so sad to see with such a promising rookie."

"Yeah, yeah," I couldn't help but roll my eyes as he dramatically acted out the facial expressions of a distraught sports announcer beside me. "So, what's it called?"

"Nuh-uh. Not telling," he dropped a grin, quick and almost unnoticeable as he turned to exit the car. "That'd give you an unfair advantage for next month's quiz! But I will say, surprisingly enough you did get the year."

"So..." I exited the car as well, wandering to the back where Sander was taking my bag out of the trunk—in an attempt to approximate suave-ness, I almost burned my hand by leaning against the car, "does that mean I get my _special reward_?"

"Nope!"

"Sander!" Unperturbed, he turned and began to walk my bag to the front doors—and even though I couldn't see it, I _know_ he had a shit-eating grin on his face.

"You didn't get the name right," I could _hear_ the smile in his voice, even if he didn't turn around. "No name, no reward."

"But I got the year!"

"That was the extra point to the bonus question." Finally, he glanced over his shoulder as he held the lobby door open for me—and, wouldn't you know it, he was still struggling to suppress a grin. "You can't get the extra point unless you get the main point."

"Says who!"

I was already pretty sure this wasn't an argument I was going to win, but it was fun to watch Sander when he thought he had some sort of power over me. I could see it in his eyes that he was enjoying getting the opportunity to mess with me, tease me more than anything else.

"Says me," he grinned, slipping in close behind as I approached the front desk. "The _professor_."

"Well, I'd like to submit a formal complaint. To the dean. Would that be Senne?" I shook my head as Sander cozied up to my side, resting his elbow on my shoulder as I pretended to ignore him.

I'm not _that_ much shorter than him.

The clerk at the front desk did me the favor of pretending nothing weird was going on as I answered her questions and handed her my ID. 

"Nah. Zoë's the dean. Senne's just the ornery janitor."

"Right then—um, yes. Checking in for five nights. And can I get a late check-out for Friday, please?"

I continued to ignore Sander as the clerk checked her computer, trying to pretend I wasn't very much enjoying the way his breath ghosted over my neck, the way his voice rumbled through my bones as he hummed next to my ear. I didn't recognize the song—I wasn't even sure it was a song—but it sounded beautiful. Calming. I could feel the coil of tension in my chest loosening, could feel myself leaning against him while I waited.

"Fine," he muttered after a few moments of waiting for my reservation to get pulled up. "Can't have you freaking out. I'll just have to tell you what the reward was. So you can stop wondering what you lost."

"Mhmm," I nodded, distracted as the clerk finally looked up at me.

"Excuse me. Mr. IJzermans? It appears we have two options for your stay this week. We have the standard two twin beds, or for the same price we have one suite with a queen bed still available.

And then Sander's cupped his hand around my ear, and his deep, quiet voice was whispering directly into my mind. And— _holy shit_ —a shiver shot down my spine strong enough to make me lose track of my breathing. In that moment, I couldn't feel my stomach twisting, or the too-cold breeze from the air-conditioning. I barely even registered the words. But after a few seconds of staring at the confused clerk and trying not to blush, they did finally click. 

"Queen-size," my voice came out choked. Strained. Hopefully not _obviously_ horny as the clerk nodded and began to process my request. "The queen bed. Please."

And then I had the key in my hand, and Sander was leading me to the elevators with a grin.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Holy _fucking_ shit. How much longer did he expect me to last!

"Sander..." I whined. I fucking _whined_ —how is Sander able to reduce me to whining so easily? So quickly? Put me on edge in such an unbearably pleasant way?

I mean, having my dick in his mouth certainly helped—but that's not always the case!

"Yes, Robbe?" I groaned as the heat, the wetness, the pressure of his tongue disappeared as he leaned back. As he looked up at me, sounding so innocent despite looking like _that_. "Do you need something?"

If not for the slight wetness at the corner of his eyes, the marks of drool around his lips, Sander looked almost proper. Still fully dressed, grinning at me as he knelt at the side of the bed. As if he hadn't pulled my pants to my ankles the moment the door slammed behind us, as if he hadn't used my shirt to tie my hands up above my head. As if he hadn't stared at me with so much expectant, eager _joy_ before diving in to make good on his promise.

_'I'm going to take you upstairs, tie you to the bed, and suck your dick until you beg me to let you cum. Do you want that, Robbe?_

"Fuck." When I didn't respond fast enough, struggling to catch my breath, he quickly dove back onto me. Once more providing me with that sweet, hot friction. As I whined, his free hand trailed up my stomach, pressing down on my chest to keep me on the bed.

Fuck. _Fuck_! I...

Once a few weeks had passed, and I had done a good enough job of pretending everything was fine—i.e. around the time I got to City Number Two—Sander and I began to occasionally dip into, well... adult conversations. In the moment, it always got rid of that ache in my gut. The occasional picture. A fantasy. One or two _'if I was there...'_ It made things feel simpler. It made everything make sense. And _holy shit_ was it hot as fuck.

I mean, it was never full-on, y'know—like, the pictures were definitely not safe for work, and one particular voice message nearly made me cum without touching myself—but we never went in-depth or anything. We didn't have to. So I don't know how Sander gleaned that _this_ particular scenario—me restrained, but not really; him in control, but only for fun—would be something that I would enjoy.

"Because if you want something, Robbe," at the sound of his voice rumbling through my name, a shiver ran down my spine, straight to my hard—so very fucking hard—dick, "all you have to do is ask."

But he was so right. So fucking right. Fuck.

"Please. Sander." I gasped, choked out as I felt that heat build at the base of my spine. Begin to burn through my body. "Please..!"

"Please what?"

And then he was gone. The pressure. The heat. Sander. All gone.

I whined wordlessly as that fire diminished without his touch.

It had been more than half an hour, and I'm pretty sure he was trying to kill me.

"All you have to do is ask," I lifted my head to glance down at him—at that smirk, those bright eyes—as he slowly trailed his hand down my chest, my abs, tickling the dip of my hip oh so gently. And then he brought me to the tip of his tongue and started again.

"Fuck!" I panted out as his hand and mouth worked together to quickly get that fire burning again. I used to think I had a reasonable amount of staying power in bed but— _Jesus_ —Sander was quickly making me question that notion. He was so... good! So fucking good. And he kept smiling up at me like he _knew_ it. And like he was really fucking happy about it.

"Yes?" He only paused long enough to get out the one word before immediately returning to his task. Before sucking me in and running his tongue along the underside of my dick in a nearly-successful attempt to make me go cross-eyed.

I knew what he wanted. I'd told myself I wasn't going to be the one to give in.

That was _before._

"Please. Sander. I need to cum." The words spilled out quickly—I was probably babbling and Sander was probably loving it—and I could feel Sander grin against my hip. "Let me cum. Sander, please make me cum. Please, Sander, I need to—fuck!"

Without even taking a moment to gloat, he brought me into his throat, and in a few seconds that fire was exploding back to life in my gut.

"Mmm. Fuck! Oh, fuck—Sander! I'm—I'm gonna—"

It was like a free-fall. Like my first real breath of the day. Like I'd been dangling over a pool for the last half-hour, being pulled higher and higher, sure I was about to die—and then I was falling. Splashing into the pool. Being filled with its warmth. Feeling the waves rock through me as Sander gently held my chest down, as he looked up at me with bright eyes and a wide smile. Despite the fact that my dick was still in his mouth. Pulsing, and letting go, and—

Who the fuck gave him permission to be that attractive?

And then as the waves grew smaller, as the tension dipped, after he finally swallowed with a grin, he carefully climbed up, hovering over me for a second before collapsing onto the mattress beside me.

"Holy shit..." I muttered, still regaining my breath.

"Told you all you had to do was ask," he grinned, shifting onto his side with his head propped up on one arm. "And so polite, too."

"Fuck off," I shoved at his chest, but not very hard—and his only response was to lean in for a quick kiss. A sloppy kiss. It made my heart flutter. "I thought I didn't earn your prize."

"True," he grinned, carefully reaching up to undo the knot of his impromptu handcuffs. "I've never been great at the whole 'delayed gratification' thing. Should I... take it back? Or..."

"Jesus..." I rolled my eyes, still trying to get my heart to stop acting like I'd just run a marathon. "So... are you..."

I glanced down as he pulled my shirt away from my wrists, taking in the sight of the _very_ obvious bulge in the crotch of Sander's jeans.

"Do you want me to..."

My question—my intentions—was cut short by yet another quick, sloppy kiss from Sander before he suddenly rolled away.

"Nah." He pushed himself up to sit against the pillows, glancing at me with a grin. "That was your special treat."

"Are you sure?" I asked, not quite believing his chipper attitude. I mean, there were plenty of times where I'd, y'know, given and not received anything in return—but the opposite was... significantly rarer. And neither occurrence ever had quite so much smiling.

And Sander was _clearly_ horny.

"Yeah. Plus, there's not enough time," he shrugged and motioned toward the alarm clock. "Reservation's at seven—and you still need to shower."

"Ah... I mean, I just need to get changed. I think it'll be okay if I don't shower," I pushed myself up onto my knees, sitting up at the other end of the bed. Why didn't he want me to reciprocate? Not that I was actively horny at the moment, but fair is fair, right?

"Mhmm," he gave me a look—the disbelieving kind—before waving me to his side of the bed. Without much thought, I accepted the invitation, crawling over to fall onto the pillows beside him.

"What?"

"Nothing, just..." with a grin, he tilted my head back and leaned down to press a much slower, much more luxuriating kiss against my lips. The kind of kiss that lasts so long that you have to breathe through your nose in the middle of it. The kind of kiss that feels so good you almost forget to do so. And when he pulled back, I'm not ashamed to admit I chased those lips for a moment before catching myself. "Go take a shower."

"I think I'm good," I stretched into his side—into his warmth—with a grin. He shook his head.

"Yeah—I just spent the better part of an hour getting _very_ up close and personal with your balls. And Robbe? Go take a shower."

"Oh my fucking god!" I laughed and shoved him away, astonished and unbelieving, and yet...

It made sense.

"Fuck you!" Still laughing—Sander's laugh mixing in from the bed—I jumped away, stormed over to the bathroom, and grabbed a towel. "Fuck you!"

It was ridiculous. And outrageous. And yet, it felt fine. Everything about it felt fine. As Sander grinned at me, dodging the spare towel I threw at his head, very obviously still hard after just sucking the life out of me... it all felt fine.

It all made sense.

It wasn't until I was standing under the scalding spray of the shower, until the tension had completely unwound, and my brain finally unfogged...

The sex made sense. The sex was what we were _doing_. Right? It's why we were both there. But now...

The sex had happened. And, unless Sander disappeared before I exited the shower, we’re still here. We were both still here. Both planning on going out to dinner. Going on a...

And that... what were we _doing_?

What was _I_ doing?

And that's right around the time my stomach began to twist, and pulse, and ache. And... yeah. Chernobyl.

Chernobyl and waiting. 

Waiting for the ball to drop. And now I had a time-limit, with Sander waiting for me in the other room. Waiting to take me out. Waiting for me to...

Fuck.

This was going to be a very long shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter-than-usual chapter. I actually already have ideas for part two and part three of April, so they should both come out in approximately one-week intervals. I know I'm not exactly a regular updater, but I hope you all know that I won't be abandoning this project. And I hope you enjoyed the second scene! Let me know if you actually like these sex scenes—they won't be constant throughout the story, but this probably won't be the last one, the way I have things planned. But if no one likes them, I will actively filter them out of future chapters.
> 
> On the other hand, if you like the way I write sex, I may be convinced to add even more such scenes in future chapters!
> 
> Also, thanks to wtfock.be for giving us Sander's birthday the day before I started writing this story's month of April! Now I get to be accurate to _both_ boys' birthdays! Fuck yeah!


	9. April Showers: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night, take two. Will Sander and Robbe actually get to go through with their plans this time?
> 
> Maybe...

Dinner was wonderful. Italian. From a little cafe that definitely didn't have more than ten tables—only half of which were filled.

What? I did, eventually, leave the shower. Sure, Sander gave me shit about being a 'primadonna' because I almost made the two of us late, but I did eventually tear myself away from the water, and the heat, and the safety they embodied. It just took a while. For the past month, I'd been teaching myself to get past this discomfort by distancing myself. Putting down the phone and walking away. Pretending I passed out early. Letting myself get lost in work.

Turns out, distancing is a lot harder to do when he's lying on a bed ten feet away having just finished giving me one of the best blowjobs I'd ever had.

Shit. Who am I kidding? That was absolutely the best blowjob I'd ever had.

 _What are we doing_?

What was _I_ doing? This... this wasn't the sort of thing I did—tagging along with a guy. This semi-casual... whatever. This wasn't something I'd done in... ever. Especially not since David. And yet, there I was, jumping into a car to go to dinner with a guy who gave me mind-blowing orgasms and then made me feel... this.

Okay, no. I'm not blaming him. This isn't Sander's fault. I have to deal with my own bullshit.

On the way to the restaurant, I occupied myself by asking questions about his work. Before dinner, I focused on telling the best stories that I could come up with about the dumb shit I did with my friends in college. And once we'd placed our orders, and the meal was coming to a close, I put all my focus on implementing the plan that I'd been formulating in secret for _weeks_.

I was going to pay for our goddamn bill.

Before the check had arrived—before our plates were even taken away—I dismissed myself to the bathroom. And then, on my way back, when he wasn't paying attention, I made my way to where our waiter was typing in another order, and pulled out my wallet. Because, clearly, Sander thought he could keep this game going. And I don't know if it was a power trip, or what, but I was perfectly willing to employ subterfuge if it meant—

"Actually, sir, your bill has already been taken care of. I ran your boyfriend's card just a minute ago." The waiter looked at me with the kind of blank smile that said he could see the storm of emotions happening in my head, and had absolutely no energy to deal with them. "If you need—"

Oh. Oh, that _fucker_.

"Alright. What's your deal?"

Surprisingly, Sander seemed completely unprepared for me to whisper menacingly in his ear as I made my way back to his seat. But maybe he should have thought of that before continuing to play this stupid little game.

"My deal?" A quirked eyebrow was my only response. Fucking fucker... trying to look smooth. "What..."

"You paid!" I fell into my chair, immediately crossing my arms over my chest. I don't know if I was more frustrated at the fact that my plan hadn't worked, or... "Asshole."

I was aggravated. I mean, it was funny. I thought it was funny. I did. But still.

"What? You mean for dinner?"

"Yes!" Exasperation was tugging at my self-control and my voice peaked in tone for a second. I mean.. It was probably just exasperation. Or maybe it was all that wine. I mean, I wasn't _really_ getting angry about something so... small. "You always pay! Seriously—no, seriously. I was going to pay! I went to pay—you won't _let me_ pay!"

Actually... you know what? Is that what _he_ was doing? Playing a game? Trying to be the big sexy man? Who always paid? That... would that make sense? I suddenly felt like the only thing I knew about Sander was how much he liked to turn things into a game. And... 

It's just... there's a few things in life that I absolutely hate—being treated like a child, being lied to, being bested—and Sander was...

I have money! I actually, for the first time in my goddamn life, have money! And it's just as good as his!

"Well, yeah," Sander shrugged, reaching over casually to finish off his wine. "Isn't that what a sugar daddy is supposed to do?"

I...

_What?_

"Is there anything else you two need?" I barely even noticed as the waiter dipped in, turning to address Sander, who shook his head with a smile.

"No, it was all awesome. Thank you."

"Ah... What did you—what?" I shook my head because... no. I felt my throat twist. No. It felt like my brain was short-circuiting. That's not—

"I mean I know one dinner a month is small to start," he smiled—so _casually_ that it made my mouth feel dry—and then leaned over the table, dropping into a whisper. "But don't you worry. We'll work up to jewelry and designer clothes before you know it."

I realized I was blinking a lot, and then I—

"I um... oh. I... I have to go."

I stood, too confused to really hear as Sander's smile grew into laughter. It didn't make sense. But then... it did. I guess. I don't...

"Robbe."

I pushed away from the table. Pushed my way out of the tiny restaurant.

Holy shit. How had I gotten this so wrong? What the fuck is wrong with me that I would misjudge a guy this much _again_.

Two in a fucking row.

"Robbe, hold on. I was just—"

"Fuck off!" I tried to yank my wrist out of his grip, and he let me go but stayed close behind as I pushed my way down the sidewalk.

"Robbe! No—hey! It was a joke!" His words barely registered, but I could still hear a tinge of laughter in his voice. Even as he followed behind me like a stray dog. "It was a—clearly a very bad, shitty joke..."

"What! Why..." The confused undertone of his words made me turn around, a hair's trigger away from exploding, when—

Oh.

I watched as the tail end of laughter in those eyes was replaced with confusion and worry, and... shit.

He was just joking.

Fuck me—of course, he was just joking.

"Don't... don't joke about that," was just about all I could come up with as I watched Sander sag with relief. Even I could hear how lame it sounded. "Just... don't."

"Sorry," to his benefit he sounded immediately sheepish. As guilty as I was beginning to feel, that part of me that had been supremely annoyed with him a few minutes ago was celebrating quietly in my mind.

I hate that part of my brain.

"I, uh... I forgot you're not used to my stupid jokes," he shook his head, fingers drumming against his thigh. "Sorry. That was clearly... very dumb of me."

"So you're not a... so you were just _pretending_ to be an asshole?"

When Sander looked up with that guilty smile and nodded—I could not describe the wave of relief that ran through my chest. And frustration. And annoyance. But—oh God—mostly relief.

"I know. I'm sorry—it's a... a bad habit. I usually limit it to just Senne and Zoë, but I..." and then his confidence petered out again, and I realized I was probably glaring at him. Sort of. "Sorry."

"So that's not why you've paid for everything?" Feeling suddenly much more in control, I turned to lean against the wall with a sigh. The night was dark, and already pretty cold, but above us there were stars poking through the darkness of the sky. 

It was a beautiful view.

"No. No, definitely not." Sander looked at me silently for a moment before I realized he was asking me permission, and without saying anything I moved over to let him lean against me.

"So, is there a reason? Or am I just..."—crazy?—"being weird?"

"Oh, you're definitely being weird," I watched as he glanced at me before he smirked, as if asking permission retroactively to make his joke. And my adrenaline spiked for just a moment before I regained control of myself. And then, after a pause, he inhaled deeply and glanced down at his boots. "But..."

Well. That's never good.

"But..."

"Okay," he sighed and then leaned his head back against the wall. "So there's this one thing I haven't told you about me. Yet."

"Ah..." Almost instantly, I felt my chest tighten again. Because...

Okay. Okay.

"No, it's just... Look, you're ridiculously smart, right? How do you think a, uh... guy like _me_ ," I'm still not entirely sure what he meant by that, "got to be someone who has his own company, and a... a nice car, a fancy apartment, all before he's twenty-five? After—as a reminder—studying Art in school."

"I..." I hesitated as I stared at the open, expectant look on his face. And then, as I took the opportunity to take him in one more time—the very nicely made leather jacket, the boots, the key-ring he'd pulled out to fiddle with—it was like something painfully obvious finally clicked in my mind.

_Oh..._

"You're rich..."

How the fuck did that not occur to me before this?

"If only," his voice was suddenly less serious as he let out a scoff. But a gentle scoff. Almost apologetic. "My family is... wealthy."

"Right. Right, okay." As I watched him twirl the car keys between his fingers, another thought occurred to me, "so—wait, has this all been to show off?"

I knew rich kids in school. Who would drive by in fancy cars and buy things just to prove you couldn't. I hated kids like that.

"No! No—is that the kind of guy you think I am? Fuck."

"No! But I also didn't know you were rich—!"

"My parents are rich," Sander corrected.

"Whatever! I... I don't know!"

"Look." He sighed again, and I could tell that this was a subject he wasn't exactly comfortable talking about. "Because of my family, I have... more money than I need. That I do pretty much nothing to deserve. Okay? And I just figure... I could keep it myself—hoard it—or buy a lot of crap I don't need. Or... I can use it to make the lives of the people I care about better. Y'know, Senne and Zoë, and... well those are really my only friends, but—"

"And with me..."

"What? You think I don't care about you?"

And—oh. Okay.

I filed _that_ little gem of a comment away to think about later—something about it felt somehow more personal than anything I'd been expecting out of our night.

"No, I just... I guess, why didn't you tell me?"

"Never came up?" Sander shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall to spin gently on the sidewalk in front of me. "No, seriously, I just didn't want things to get weird. Money's just... weird to talk about. This is weird to talk about, right?"

I nodded and then silently accepted Sander's invitation to keep walking. Now that we had cleared the air—I mean, okay, maybe I had overreacted, and this whole thing was sort of a blindside—the idea of moving felt good.

"Like, I have no idea how much money you make—and you don't have to tell me," he added, turning to me quickly before leaping over the curb. "All I know is you're just out of college and you hate your job—"

"I do not hate my job!" I lied. Why does everybody think that?

"Well you sure as shit complain about it a lot,” he laughed, reaching back to drag me closer to him. "And—fine, maybe it's _rude_ to assume you don't make a lot of money, but I was honestly just going with statistics. You can't get mad at statistics."

I... honestly wasn't sure if I should have been offended by that. Like... should I?

Also, as a side-note, you absolutely can get mad at statistics. I did so all the time in University.

"But... once, in college, I took this girl out on a date to a nice restaurant, and when the bill came, she got really upset because she couldn't afford to split it. It ruined the night—and I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I didn't get a second date."

"Uhuh..."

"I just wanted to take you someplace nice without you having to worry about it. But—okay. From now on—I promise, I'm not trying to be weird—we will split the bill."

_From now on..._

Part of me wanted to focus on how sweet—a little off, but sweet—his sentiment was. Another part of me had already started going down the very deep, very dark rabbit hole, of what the hell the two of us were actually _doing_. Of what he wanted us to keep doing.

Instead, I let myself get caught on another thought. 

"Wait—wait, Sander. How much was dinner? Tonight?"

I mean, it had been nice but I, admittedly, hadn't really paid attention to the prices on the menu. To be honest, I'm not even sure the menu had prices...

"Um. Two-hundred euro..."

Oh.

_Oh..._

"Please tell me you're joking."

Unfortunately, there was no smirk, no sly smile. Just a sheepish shrug before he continued walking toward the next street.

Jesus! It's not that I couldn't afford that—for special occasions—but I honestly... I mean, maybe there's a universe out there where there's a Robbe who's used to having that much money dropped on him. Maybe a Robbe who spent a bit more time working out and taking care of himself, who actually did have a sugar daddy. And—I mean, good for him, no shame in that. But I am not that Robbe. The last time someone spent two-hundred euros on me in a single night was back when my dad still thought he could buy his way into being my favorite parent—and that was on Christmas.

And he'd given up on that idea a long time ago.

"Don't be mad," I could tell there was a part of Sander that was still finding this amusing—maybe he hadn't been completely truthful about why he did what he did—but mostly he just looked... embarrassed.

Good.

"I promise it won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't," I shook my head. "Because from now on, I'm helping you choose the restaurant. Two-hundred euros, Jesus-fucking..."

And as we walked towards the parking lot where Sander's BMW was parked, I refused to let myself think about what I meant by those words, _'from now on.'_ Just like I refused to put too much thought into Sander's sudden release of tension as he laughed, and turned to me with a smile, and happily reached out to shake my hand.

"It's a deal."

++++++++++++++++++++++++

"So this is where you went to high school?"

I heard Sander hum his assent at the same time that I felt the sudden warmth of his chest press into my back. The night had turned colder than I think either of us had expected, and I, for one, hadn't brought a jacket. Sander obviously had his leather jacket, but—in a valiant rejection of chivalry—he had refused to let me borrow it when I stepped out of the car. Said it completed his look.

Apparently, sharing his body warmth directly was his compromise.

"Looks a lot less traumatizing at night," I heard the grin in his voice as he wrapped his jacket around the both of us and clumsily waddled us toward the school's gate. If it hadn't been so cold I might have shaken him off, but... 

Hey, the warmth felt good.

"If you make it through high school without being traumatized, did you even really go to high school?" I joked, leaning my head back and enjoying the sudden comfort I found myself surrounded by.

I know it wasn't directly the cause, but ever since our conversation—or, well, argument—after dinner... that ache in my stomach had almost completely disappeared. It was like fucking magic. And I had no idea how long it was going to last, but I planned on riding that wave as long as possible.

That plus the fact that I was more than a little wine-drunk? I was feeling _very_ good.

"Obviously not."

"Wait—hold on! Wait, no, my school looked exactly like this! Like... _exactly_ like this. The same entry arch and everything!"

"Seriously?" With a laugh, Sander released me from the hold of his warmth, letting me jog up to tug on the loosely chained gate of the school.

"Yeah! Honestly, it's almost creepy."

"You'll have to show me if I ever end up in Antwerp," Sander said as he continued walking, past the gate and along the wall. "I love when there's a glitch in the Matrix—have you ever seen _The Matrix_?"

"Obviously," I jogged to catch back up, glancing back one more time to look at the school. It really was eerily identical to mine—and not just because I was intoxicated. "Have you ever been to Antwerp?"

I decided not to focus on the thought of him going to Antwerp _with me_. Even if my brain really wanted to think about that.

"Actually, yeah." Sander began to lead us around the corner and down another street. "I actually almost went to the Royal Academy for University."

"No way, really?" I laughed, light and pleasant when he turned around to nod. That would have been an amazing coincidence.

"Well—I say almost," he grinned, turning around to walk backward as he faced me. "I didn't actually _get in_. But other than, y'know, having shit grades and not sleeping for two days before the interview, I was the ideal candidate."

"Sander... why didn't you sleep?" My voice slipped slightly into a chastising tone.

What? I was drunk. And I've always been a 'go to sleep early the night before something important' kind of guy.

"Turned out it was the beginning of a manic episode—" he shrugged before I could say anything in response, "—I know. Bad timing. But, honestly, it was for the best. If I hadn't stayed local I would never have met Senne and Zoë, and _then_ who would I rely on to run Local Odyssey for me?"

He smiled, and as far as I could tell it looked completely genuine. Which was good enough for me.

"Who knows," I laughed, following when Sander turned into an alley leading away from his school. "Maybe in the universe where you did get in, you met me. And I'm the one who does all your work for you."

"The universe what?" Sander looked over, a quirked eyebrow betraying his interest.

Oh. Fuck. I actually said that. Out loud.

"The, uh... nothing." I shook my head. "Nevermind."

"No, no! Tell me!" Smiling wider now, Sander jumped in front of me, grabbing both of my hands like a giddy child. "Another universe—like, parallel universes? Like wormholes?"

"No, it's... it's nothing. It's stupid," I looked at the wall, noticing for a moment the layers of graffiti covering almost all the brick. Mostly tags, simple things like names in stylized letters. Occasionally something more. But then Sander was tugging me forward, bringing my attention back to him.

He's remarkably good at that.

"So what if it's stupid," Sander grinned, tugging me again as he continued to walk backward. "I'm literally about to show you something I painted when I was sixteen. You want to talk stupid—that guy was a fucking idiot."

"Unlike modern Sander?" I joked, hoping to pull the attention away from me.

"Yeah, modern Sander's a goddamn genius. Now, what were you saying about universes?"

I paused, letting my hands slip out of his as he took a few extra backward steps. It's just that... I didn't really talk with people about this whole... worldview of mine. I mean, not that I thought Sander would react like David had, but...

Sander's smile shined bright in the moonlight

"So you know about the... Many-Worlds Theory? From Quantum Mechanics?"

He was trusting me. Fair is fair.

"I don't know anything about Quantum Mechanics, but I've heard of it. Parallel universes, right?" 

"Yeah," I shook my head, quieting the science nerd within me that wanted to launch into a much more detailed explanation. "Essentially. There are infinite worlds with infinite possibilities. Where every outcome has a reality to exist in."

 _'You believe in that shit?_ '

"Yeah. That! Is that something you believe in?"

"Actually, yeah," I shrugged, forcing as much nonchalance as I could into my tone. "Do you?"

Sander paused for a moment, only looking up right around the time I realized I'd been holding my breath. "To be honest, I've never thought about it that way. I mean, as in it being... reality. I always thought it was the realm of sci-fi."

"Yeah, well..." I could feel my defenses rising slightly—the last thing I wanted is for Sander to think I couldn't differentiate sci-fi movies from reality. "Not exactly like the movies, but yeah. That's how I see it. Not just sci-fi."

"So what does that mean?" Sander asked, with true, pleasant curiosity in his words. "Do you, like... pray to the multiverse or something?"

Okay, so maybe he was bullshitting me just a little. But still.

I could work with that.

"No, jackass—" I rolled my eyes as he held his hands up in faux-innocence, "—it's not... it's not like religion. I don't look to parallel Robbes to tell me what to do or, like, how to act. It's just the way I think about reality. It makes sense to me."

I shrugged, glancing down at my shoes as I kicked at a piece of gravel.

"It calms me down."

I glanced up in time to see Sander take a small, hesitant step forward.

"How does it do that?"

Oh. I, um... I didn't expect to get this far.

Before I realized what was happening, Sander was taking off his jacket and wrapping it around my shoulders—I fucking _knew_ he was the sappy gentlemanly type.

"You were shivering."

I'd been shivering literally since we left his car.

"Thanks," I looked up and saw his soft, almost shy smile, and...

Okay. Damn.

"The vastness of the universe is terrifying," I started as I turned to slip my arms into the sleeves of his jacket. It really was a nice jacket—probably expensive as fuck—a soft, satiny inner layer slid across my shirt and immediately I began to feel warmer. "Not in any sort of malevolent way. The opposite, really. Compared to the universe, the rest of us are... infinitesimally small. And the idea that any of us could be _at all_ important, on any kind of scale that matters is... almost laughable."

"Man, you really know how to set the mood, IJzermans." I saw Sander smirk, but then he was nodding for me to continue. And, I'll admit: I really wanted to continue.

"Anyway..." I shook my head, letting myself sink into the warmth of his jacket as we both began to once again walk toward our destination. Slowly, this time. "What I mean is... in a single universe, any one of us is essentially... nothing. But with the Many-Worlds Theory, infinite universes exist and are unique solely _because_ of a change in me. Or you! Or, y'know, anyone—what I mean is... each one of us is important enough to be the basis of not just one unique universe. But infinite."

Above us, a single, solitary cloud darkened the moon, and for just a moment the alley around us was dark. But I could still hear Sander breathing beside me. Walking beside me. Still there. With me.

"Infinite Sanders," came out of the silence in a quiet, almost wary, mutter. Along with something else I couldn't make out.

"And infinite Robbes," I nodded. "And infinite Robbes with infinite Sanders in infinite alleyways."

With a light chuckle, Sander knocked into my shoulder as we walked.

"And when I'm stressed about making the wrong choice, or fucking something up... I dunno, it's just calming to know that there's always going to be a Robbe out there who did it right. Y'know?"

There was another moment of silence, as we reached the outlet of the alley and Sander stopped walking. Behind him, despite the lack of moonlight, I could see the heavily graffitied wall in the yellow glow of the slowly flickering street light. It was an image of an angel, with dark brown wings littered with green eyes cloaking the entire form. One hand was extended to hold a fiery sword, and another... I'm pretty sure it was holding a pot leaf. And between them, a banner that read 'Be Not Afraid. I Shall Walk Among You, And You Will Be Saved.'

"I think... you're looking at it in a way that I can't." Finally, he looked up, meeting my eyes with a smile before reaching out his hand. I took it without thinking, even as my brain tried to interpret his words. "But I think that's a good thing. I like that—I like that you think like that."

And I didn't know what to say to that, but... my stomach didn't ache. And my heart was...

It was a feeling I was pretty sure I should chase.

"Is, um... is that your piece?"

I nodded to the angel behind him—there was a stylized 'S.D.' near the feet that was half-covered by someone else's tag.

"Mhmm!" With a quick tug, he pulled me closer, wrapping me in a light hug so that I could see the painting over his shoulder while he continued to face away from it. "I tagged like three other sections of this alley over the years but this is the only one that hasn't been painted over."

"Wow... Sander, it's..." Despite the fact that there were clearly some spaces where his hand had been unsteady with the spray paint, the piece was honestly impressive. Except for the pot leaf. That felt... off. "How old were you when you did this?"

Not that I could accomplish it at any age.

"Sixteen," he muttered, letting his chin rest on my shoulder, still facing away from the wall. "I painted it right after my best friend told the whole school that I was bipolar."

Oh.

"What—really?"

"Yeah," he sighed, hands falling to rest on my lower back. I could only wonder at what his face was doing. "He was the only one I'd told. But then he thought I ratted him out to a teacher about cheating on an exam. So... the whole school found out over the course of a single weekend."

"That's..." I hesitated, unsure there was any way to truly capture the magnitude of what I wanted to say. How angry I could feel myself getting. "That's shitty."

"Well... you're not wrong," he laughed. Finally, he stepped back, and then walked around me, keeping his hand on my hip until he was standing behind me, chin back on my shoulder, arms wrapped around my waist. "I got tired of everyone looking at me like I was a monster. Or looking at me like I was something to pity. Or, y'know, just looking away every time they saw me. I wanted to paint something to tell them that they didn't have to treat me any different. And that they didn't have to be scared."

I leaned back into the solidness of his chest as I took another look at the angelic figure. At the way the sword was turned down and still in its sheath. At how many eyes were closed. At the still obvious inhumanness of it.

Is that how Sander saw himself? At least, when he was sixteen?

"Did it work?" I lifted my head off his shoulder so I could turn to see his face, watch his eyes skate over the wall. I saw him take it in. Felt his arms wrap a little tighter around my waist.

"No. Well—sort of." Sander shrugged and then suddenly I could feel the cold of the night against my back again as he began to walk down the street. "Turns out a bunch of people just thought it meant I was selling weed for a good price."

"No..."

"Yeah," he laughed, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. "But, hey, at least I made friends with the potheads."

I wonder if that would have included me and my friends, back when we were in high school.

"That's hilarious," I grinned, pretending I didn't feel the fire in my chest as I thought about what Sander must have gone through. Pretending there wasn't a part—a very large, very loud part—that wanted Sander to tell me more about that time. To confide in me. 

That wanted to be here for that—whenever Sander needed it.

"I know, right?"

And I saw the strain in Sander's eyes, and almost had to stop to keep myself from grabbing him and holding him and kissing that pain away. Letting my heart overflow into him.

Fuck.

Oh, right. Yeah. That makes sense.

"So where are we going now?" I asked instead, jogging to get myself even with him as he walked us down another street.

"Okay. I know it's late, but I have a few more tags around here from way back, assuming they haven't been painted over. Do you want to see them?"

And then Sander reached out and I intertwined my hand with his, squeezing with my fingers in a useless attempt to expel all that excess energy that I was trying to ignore.

And then I nodded, and grinned, and let him lead the way.

Because that's what I was doing, there, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told y'all this one would be out in a week! Hopefully, the next one will be as well!
> 
> Man, this was a very conversation heavy chapter. I really hope you liked it anyway! I feel like it's incredibly key to these two boys building a relationship, but then again, what do I know. I'm just the one writing it. I still don't know if they're gonna work...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all liked this! If so, tell me which conversation you preferred for these two! 
> 
> Next chapter coming soon! I hope.


	10. April Showers: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe is feeling a lot more comfortable with how thing are going. For some reason. And you know what that means!

**Robbe:** _Look you know i'll pay you back for that chicken when i get home._

 **Robbe:** _Random question. Am I a gold digger?_

I pulled my jacket tighter around me and glanced down at my phone as the Uber took a hard left away from the center of the city. Despite the fact that it was yet another cold night, the driver—Seppe, according to the app—apparently had no desire to turn the heat on. And he just looked away wordlessly when I tried to catch his eye. Not exactly five start service, is what I'm saying.

 **Milan:** _Well thats an unexpected question. If you are youre not a very good one. Why?_

 **Milan:** _You can pay me back by getting me a sandwich from that place near Jens apartment_

 **Robbe:** _I thought you were on a diet?_

I smirked at the screen as three dots immediately and angrily appeared next to Milan's name. The sandwiches Milan was asking for were these absolutely gigantic pieces of fried chicken, smothered in so much greasy, spicy sauce that the bun and toppings practically fell apart as you were eating it. They were amazing. And Milan had become not-so-secretly obsessed with them after he tried—and then stole—one that Jens brought me as a hangover cure.

 **Milan:** _Its called a cheat day and for that little remark you can buy me two_

Chuckling to myself, I glanced out the window of the car as unfamiliar office buildings and shops flew past. We were making our way into an area of the city that I had never been to before. Not that I'm, like, at all familiar with City Number 3 outside of the path from the hotel to work or the train station. Or Sander's. But still. This half of the city was all new.

_"Hey, are you free Thursday night? I'm just gonna be hanging out with Zoë and Senne. You could come if you want."_

Of course I'd said yes.

 **Robbe:** _Fine. Two sandwiches. Sat dinner on me._

 **Milan:** _So are we just trying to skip past the whole golddigger question? Or..._

I glanced up just as the car came to a sudden and semi-terrifying stop before immediately starting back up again.

Well then.

 **Robbe:** _No._

 **Robbe:** _Its complicated._

And then when there was no response for a few minutes:

 **Robbe:** _Okay so ive been feeling confused about this guy for a few weeks, and then this weekend I find out he's rich and boom,,, no more weird feeling._

When I woke up that Monday morning in my hotel room, mouth a little dry from drinking too much wine the night before, I hadn't been completely sure what was going on. Because the lack of awkward discomfort in my gut was... noticeable after more than a month. But then, as I went throughout my day—as Sander texted me to thank me for the great night, to make sure I didn't have a hangover, to invite me to hang out—it just... never came back. Chernobyl. It was like, for the first time in a month, my head was clear. My body was clear. And nothing Sander did over the next few days made it rear its ugly head. Not even when he got... _very_ in-depth about why he wanted me to stay with him on Thursday night.

And I have _no fucking idea_ what that all meant.

I mean, am I a golddigger? Cause—look, I fully admit, I'm not the best at, y'know... knowing things about myself. Alright? It took an embarrassingly long time before I _knew_ I was gay, so like...

I sighed, just as the car suddenly lurched to the left in an attempt to move past a slow-moving truck. 

Okay—are all drivers in this city this terrifying? Or is it just Sander and... this guy?

 **Milan:** _Hmmm. Are you sure its related?_

 **Milan:** _Cause that doesn't sound like you dear. Remember that guy from my dorm I tried to set you up with? You wouldn't even meet him because his Insta made him look 'like someone who never had to clean his room himself'_

 **Robbe:** _I did not say that!_

 **Milan:** _You did_

I did. I totally did. And I was absolutely right—you cannot change my mind on that. The guy looked like a douche.

 **Milan:** _Im just saying you don't really have the golddigger personality_

 **Milan:** _I mean how rich are we talking?_

_'Look. My parents have enough money that they bought me a forty-thousand-euro car for a graduation present, and... yeah. Now can we please stop talking about this?'_

I sighed.

 **Robbe:** _Idk. Rich enough?_

There was a lull in Milan's replies that happened to coincide with the driver slowing down as he pulled up to a very normal, slightly-aged looking apartment building. My phone vibrated once as I undid my seatbelt, asking me to rate and tip my driver. Which I did—probably more kind than I should have been—as I walked to the front door, and then shot off a text to let Sander know I'd arrived.

 **Milan:** _Honey if thats your response i think youre fine_

 **Milan:** _My friend with a sugar daddy knows exactly how much his man makes_

 **Milan:** _Now if this guy's looking for someone to burn money on you let me know. Cause I have ideas_

As I looked down at Milan's final response, smiling at the ridiculousness that was so much more enjoyable over long distances, the sound of heavy footfalls began to filter out to the sidewalk from behind the glass doors. A moment later there was a loud crash as a door just inside the lobby burst open, revealing a dim stairwell with Sander, already smiling, already jogging toward me, maybe a little bit out of breath.

_Fuck, he's hot._

Okay. So maybe I wasn't a golddigger. At least, according to Milan. I mean, there was definitely a bit of moral relief at reading those messages. I could feel my apprehension of this suddenly appearing comfort lessen slightly. 'Cause yeah, I probably already knew that was the case. 

But... is it weird that I was sort of hoping that it had been true?

At least then I would have had an explanation—to why the Chernobyl had suddenly disappeared, to the excited giddiness I could feel welling up in my chest as Sander opened the lobby doors.

Now, I just...

Yeah. 

+++++++++++++++++++++

Senne turned to me, a spot of pizza sauce still visible on his cheek, shameless smirk on his lips, and asked, "So, Robbe, what's the drunkest thing _you've_ ever done?"

The night had started with a little bit of business-talk still happening between Sander and Zoë. A little bit of awkward silence between Senne and me as we let them finish their discussion about—as far as I could gather—a meeting they had with the head of a local museum early next week. Not that I wanted an awkward silence. It's just... I don't really know the guy.

Or I didn't know the guy.

But then the food arrived—Sander accepting my 10-euro chip-in without comment—and the business talk stopped. And then the normal talk began. And, well...

These guys can talk.

We had just finished being regaled by Senne's story about the time he got drunk enough to try to climb up Zoë's fire escape with a broken guitar he'd found on a street-corner, and I think I was starting to get a better picture of who Sander's friends were. Like, maybe Senne wasn't quite as much of the stoic brooding guy as I thought—at least not while drunk. And Zoë, who cut in to remind him that she almost ended the night by stabbing him to get him to stop drunkenly screaming love songs, was just as bad-ass as I thought she was.

And now Senne, half a pizza and a few beers into the night, was looking at me with a pleasant, slightly-goofy smile, awaiting my response to his question. Because, apparently, it was my turn.

"The drunkest thing I've ever done? Or the dumbest thing I've ever done?" I asked, turning to get a better look at Senne and Zoë from the couch.

"They're not the same?" Zoë leaned back in her chair as she finished the last of Senne's beer, eyebrow raised in quiet judgment.

"You mean outside of talking to him for the first time?"

Sander held his hands up in faux-innocence as I knocked my socked feet against his chest. We had moved to couches once we'd finished the pizza—and salad, provided by Zoë—and I was beginning to feel surprisingly comfortable. Surprising for me, at least. Comfortable enough to slip off my shoes, to sprawl out on the couch and put my feet in Sander's lap. I don't know if it was the lack of Chernobyl, or the alcohol, or what, but... the night just had this... almost welcoming feeling.

It felt so much like nights out with my friends. Back home.

"Obviously," Senne grinned, finally wiping the sauce off his face after Zoë had caught his eye. "That'd be too easy."

"You guys are just the best fucking friends..." Sander muttered, tapping gently at my shin a few times until I got the message and let him stand. 

"Okay, okay," begrudgingly, I sat up, glancing over the couch at Sander as he walked to the kitchen to pour us both a glass of water, "I got it. Okay. So, picture me. Seventeen. Dumbass. Absolutely smashed at a party.

"A great start to any story," Zoë quipped, walking over to sit on the love seat beside her boyfriend.

"Right? We were at this rich kid's house, it was huge. And they had this pool that the house sort of..." I paused my attempt to model the shape of the house with my hands to let Sander wrap his arm around my shoulder as he sat down beside me, "it wrapped around it. Like a, uh... a horseshoe. With the pool at the center."

As I watched Zoë and Senne nod at my scene-setting, I let myself relax back into Sander's chest while his fingers danced lazily on my upper arm. It was a nice feeling.

Very nice.

"Anyway, my friends and I, we were trying to find somewhere private to smoke, and Jens—he's my friend—he found this trellis strong enough for us to climb from a balcony up to the roof, which, to us was, like, perfect. So—"

"No! Tell me you didn't jump off the roof!" Zoë interrupted, looking surprisingly engaged.

"Shh!"

"Don't shush me!" In an instant, Zoë was spinning around to slap playfully at Senne's arm. "You shush!"

"You're ruining his story!" Senne laughed, letting Zoë hit his chest with a pillow before pulling her into a smothering hug.

"I'll ruin your story."

"Shhhhh..."

Behind me, I could feel the light shaking of Saner's chest as he chuckled. "You two done?"

"Continue," Senne nodded, even as Zoë reached up to pushed his face away from her with a giggle.

"Ah... yeah," I felt myself sinking deeper into the warmth of Sander's chest as I grinned. "My friend Moyo dared me to jump into the pool for a vlog. We were three stories up, but I figured, y'know, its water. It's like jumping off a high dive. No problem."

Zoë, her attention back on me as she settled back against Senne's side, just shook her head.

"Hey! I told you I was drunk."

"No, I just... this sounds depressingly like something that happened at my school, too, and I'm... boys really are all alike, aren't you?"

"So, I'm assuming you made it," Sander's voice resonated through my spine pleasantly from behind, "considering you're here. And able to walk."

"Now you're ruining the story!" Senne yelled from his side of the room to more of Zoë's giggling.

"Yes. I survived," I shook my head, digging my elbow into Sander's side for just a few seconds, "But I, uh..."

Well, this is the embarrassing part.

"Okay, so, also remember I was now high. Keep that in mind. But I decided I needed a little bit of momentum, so I took a step back and then... I tripped on my shoelace."

"Oh shit!" Senne mumbled as I felt Sander chuckle behind me.

Okay, so now I _know_ he's a bastard.

"If you watch the video, its actually quite majestic," I insisted. "I did a full flip in the air, landed flat on my back—luckily, yes, in the pool."

"Thankfully," Sander muttered, and then I felt him pull me a little closer. So he's, like... a soft bastard.

"Unfortunately my arm was sorta... splayed out," I held up my left arm for everyone to see, "hit the edge of the pool. Was stuck in a cast for the rest of the year."

"No!" Zoë lamented as the other two laughed. And then I was laughing as she began to inspect her own arm, because dumbasses getting hurt is pretty damn funny, even when you're the dumbass.

"I didn't even feel it until the next day!" I smiled over at Sander's friends.

"What color cast?" Sander asked, still with traces of laughter in his voice. And then, with a little bit more sarcasm, "Did you get your whole class to sign it?"

"I knew better than to trust my friends not to draw a bunch of dicks," I shook my head, not mentioning that I'd refused to talk to Moyo or Jens for more than a week after that night. "And red."

"Mmm," Sander hummed, and I felt him bury his nose in my hair before whispering, "you look sexy in red."

"Have you even seen me in red?" I asked softly, turning away from his two friends so he could see my doubtful expression. I only had like two red shirts that I could think of, and I was pretty sure I'd never worn either around him.

"No," he shrugged, light enough to not jostle me, "but I am an artist. I know these things."

"Oh fuck off," I rolled my eyes, shifting so I could drape one of my legs between his knees. 

"You don't believe me?" he grinned, and my god he sounded so fucking cocky for a moment.

Why did I have find that so incredibly attractive?

"You two having fun over there?" Zoë called, reminding me—as I caught myself biting my lip and shifting more so into Sander's lap—that we were not, in fact alone. "Your turn, Sander. Drunkest story."

"I, uh," Sander glanced down at me for a second, and I swear in my head I could hear exactly what he was asking with those eyes. Or maybe it was the way he squeezed my hip. Or shifted his legs a little. Regardless, I responded with a quick nod, enjoying his quick smile before he looked back up to his friends. "I think we're gonna head out, actually. Before it gets too late. He has work tomorrow. Besides—you already know all my stupid stories."

"There's no way you've already told us all of them."

"Plus," Senne added, "I bet Robbe hasn't."

"I'll tell him later." I felt Sander's hands move down to grip my waist, squeezing pleasantly for a moment before shifting me off of his lap and onto the couch. 

"Boo!" Zoë called, and part of me wanted to agree. I'd definitely be interested in hearing more stories about Sander's past. But he was already standing, already offering his hand to help me up, and... there were other things I wanted from him even more.

"I know," he chuckled. "I know, I'm the worst. I'm horrible. Don't worry, I'm very ashamed." Without waiting for me to slip on my shoes, Sander walked around the couch and began to put on his coat. "Next time. Senne, see you tomorrow?"

"Yup! Wait, don't forget to put out the trash tonight."

"Mhmm."

"Oh, Robbe, before you go," Zoë sat up a bit taller, fighting off Senne's arms as she turned to look at me. "Almost forgot—are you going to be joining us for Sander's birthday? I need to know how many spots to make the reservation for on Monday."

Oh.

Huh. That, uh...

In an instant, I suddenly felt both less and more drunk at the same time. Just... off balance. I glanced over at Sander, hoping to get some stabilization, only to see him turn, stiffly, to face the door.

Did I... Did I know that?

No.

I don't think I did.

"Ah..." I turned from Sander to Zoë, who was looking up at me with a pleasant smile, and shook my head. 'Cause it would be... rude. I guess. To invite myself to a party I didn't even know was happening.

Yeah. Besides...

"No. I, uh... I won't be here. On Monday."

"Oh shoot," I was surprised to see her frown looked legitimately disappointed. "Well, if anything changes let me know ASAP so I can get us all a bigger table. Yeah?"

"Uh..." I glanced back over at Sander, pausing a moment to take in how he was now staring down at his feet, head pressed against the door, and... okay. It was pretty easy to guess that this was something he didn't want me to know about. Even I can read that kind of body language. But I wasn't going to, like... make a scene because of it. Not inviting me to his birthday party. Because I'm not _twelve_. And that would be stupid.

But—and maybe this is stupid, too—it did hurt. A little.

Maybe more than a little.

I, um... I wonder why that is.

"Yeah," I shook my head as I realized Zoë was still waiting for my response.

"I'll let you know."

+++++++++++++++++++++++

We made it all the way down to the street before Sander finally broke the silence.

Which is fine. It's not like he owed me an explanation or anything.

"Okay, I know what you're thinking—"

Sander cut himself off as he turned to look at me, and I realized—from the look in his eyes—that my face probably wasn't what he'd been expecting. Eyes furrowed, looking down and off to the side, bottom lip already being worried under my teeth.

If Sander knew what I was thinking, I wish he would've told me. Because I had no idea.

I just knew things felt... awkward. Well, more than awkward, really. But I don't know the word for that.

"So... It's your birthday on Monday?"

But also, it felt stupid to feel awkward about this because we were fucking _adults_ , right? It's essentially just another day.

"It is," Sander sighed and took a step closer. "And you can definitely come if you want to. I just..."

He hesitated.

I shook my head, letting out a cough in hopes that it would expel whatever ache was starting to sit in my chest. I knew a pity-invite when I heard it.

Y'know, thinking about it, it started to make sense. I had already met Senne and Zoë for other reasons, but a birthday dinner was probably going to have other friends. Maybe family. Not the kind of thing you take your... inter-city hookup to. Right? Besides. I wouldn't have been here.

"No. I mean, I'm gonna be back in Antwerp, so..."

"Robbe, hey, I just—I didn't want you to feel like you were obligated to do anything, or change your schedule, or something."

Honestly, it made sense. What didn't make sense was why my stupid ass brain was reacting the way it was. I mean, it's not like—

"Why would I feel obligated?" I shrugged, finally looking up to see Sander staring at me like... like a fucking puppy dog. What was I supposed to do with that? "I mean, it's not like I'm your boyfriend. Or, whatever..."

I mean... it made sense.

What didn't make sense was the way Sander's mouth formed a tight line at my words, the way he closed his eyes for a moment before letting out a sigh. I mean, surely this wasn't news to him. There were a lot of things I was confused about, but—

"And... what if you were?"

Oh. Right. What if I...

I realized that Sander was staring at me. Staring me in the eye with this intense, serious look on his face. Staring me in the eye as his mouth opened slightly, as he began to chew on his lip.

Oh.

"What if I was..."

"My boyfriend," he said immediately, filling in the blank and setting off an alarm in my head. "Is that... something you would want?"

Is... Was he asking..?

No. That wouldn't make sense.

I was not prepared for this.

"What? Sander..."

I watched wordlessly as Sander's body straightened, as he seemed to be filled with some... energy. Drive. His hand tapping repeatedly at the side of his leg as he shifted closer to me.

"I mean, obviously this is not the scenario I was envisioning for this—I had plans, but..."

He paused, and for a moment I assumed he was about to take it all back. Or admit he'd gotten ahead of himself. Or something. That would have made sense. That's how this universe is supposed to work.

"I really like you, Robbe." He sighed, and his voice was this... incredible mixture of desperation and smiling, of doubt and a kind of forced-confidence. It set my heart beating in this... funny way. "And I've really enjoyed what we've been doing up until now. Talking to you or spending time together... And I know you have too."

My mind was racing too much for me to do anything but nod.

"And I know we haven't talked about it, but... look, Robbe, I don't want it to stop at that. At hooking up. I want..." he stopped, and then seemed to stand even taller, "more."

I wish I could tell you exactly what I was feeling at that moment. All I know is that, in large part, it was... dread.

And something else. But definitely dread.

"Sander," I said after he'd fallen silent for a while. After it was clear he was waiting for me. "How would that even work? I live halfway across the country."

"I know that," Sander shook his head, the fingers tapping at his leg increasing in speed. "I know it's not perfect. But when is anything ever perfect, anyway. Right? I think—no, I know we can make it work."

He grinned, a bit rueful.

"I don't..." I swallowed the lump in my throat. No. I needed to get out ahead of this. "I don't think that's a good idea. It couldn't work."

I'd tried forcing a doomed relationship once before. I knew how it ended up. I knew how much it hurt.

It was inevitable.

"I _know_ it is." Sander took another step closer and I couldn't stop myself from dropping my eyes to the ground. To focus on his boots, on how one of his laces was practically untied. "It already works. _We_ already work. And we could make this even more, if you just... trust me on this, Robbe."

I could feel my heart rate increasing, my blood being to pound, to race around my body. God. I was terrified, wasn't I? And the _scariest_ thing was that—against all logic, all common sense—such a large part me of me just wanted to scream _'Yes'_. 

I was not prepared for this. I was not expecting this.

"What—what does 'more' even mean? I’m not even _here_ 90% of the time, what more are you actually expecting?”

The argument was already playing out in my brain. Because—how could we ever be more than... daily texts and a few nights of sex a month? Even if we started doing weekends... if he came to visit me a few times a month—God what was I even thinking? It would never work.

“It’s not..." Sander sighed, and finally stopped his fingers tapping at his leg so that he could reach out. I felt his hand trailing from my shoulder, to my elbow, to my wrist, finally stopping to grasp my hand like... almost like he couldn't imagine letting go. I held back a shiver in the cold. "I want more nights like tonight. Hanging out with my friends like we're just another couple. Like we were practically doing tonight. And I want to do it with your friends, too!"

"We can do that now," I said, and I already knew it sounded lame, but... it was the safe answer.

I suddenly felt an incredible need to stay safe.

"No. It's not the same. It’s not really a thing, it’s... a promise." He sighed. "'More' is a promise that you’re not going to just disappear one day. Out of nowhere." 

I felt his hand squeeze mine and without thinking, returned the gesture. God, why did he sound so _sincere_ about want this? Wanting me? It's not like I was some... amazing catch. 

"And that I'm not either," he added quickly after a moment too long of silence. "A promise that we’re gonna try to... to build a history together. Like they—" he gestured back up to Zoë's apartment, "—have. It's... I'm not explaining myself—see this is why I was going to wait until next month. You shoulda seen the plans I was getting ready for next month. You definitely would have said yes."

He shook his head, chuckling to the empty street, and I felt so fucking overwhelmingly lost.

I wonder if there's a universe out there where Sander had enacted some... plan. I wonder if it had worked like he wanted it to.

"I'm hoping the fact that you haven't already said 'no,' is a good sign?"

Fucking... what was I supposed to say to that? Especially once I saw those big, wide, ridiculously unfair puppy-dog eyes directed at me.

"Sander..." I shook my head and forced myself to drop his hand. "What we have now... it works. Why can't we just stay like we are now?"

Simple. Not painful.

A moment of silence passed before Sander responded. A moment where his eyes searched mine like he could find the answer to all life's questions in them. And then he was looking at me with a new, sudden air of assuredness.

"It's not enough." His words were quiet. Soft. They didn't have to be aggressive to send me reeling. "It hasn't been enough since the first time I met you, but now... I can't just be your hookup, anymore. _That_ wouldn't work. That would kill me. Because I want you, Robbe. All the way or..." a tinge of sadness betrayed his voice, "or no way."

Fuck. _Fuck_.

"So what?" I struggled to keep my voice steady. "Either I say yes, or this is... done?"

"I'm not trying to pressure you," Sander said, even as he nodded. Sounding almost apologetic. But not really. "But I know what I need."

"And you need... a promise?" I repeated his word back to him, part of me hoping it would help me understand why he was... risking this. This thing we had. This thing that had _just_ started working the way it was supposed to. Part of me hoping it would show him how unnecessary this was. "And what? Morning texts and goodnight kisses and..."

"And getting to be a part of your life, beyond just dates and really, really great sex." He grinned, and I have no idea how he could be confident enough to joke around as he stood in front of me like that. And I have no idea why that made me feel this way. "And seeing you more. And being exclusive."

God that sounded so appealing. It just, logically...

"I haven't been with anyone else since we met," I mused. Deciding for the moment that it wasn't pertinent just how long it had been since I'd been with anyone else.

It took a few seconds before I realized that Sander wasn't responding. Before I noticed the sudden look of regret in his eyes.

"Ah."

Right. Of course. Honestly, I should have assumed that. In what universe would David— _I mean, Sander_ —not...

"Robbe—"

"No," I shook my head, forcing myself to ignore the pit that had suddenly formed in my stomach—because it made sense. Why was I so freaked out over something that made so much sense? "Like you said, we never talked about that, anyway."

It probably happened when I wasn't here. That would make the most sense. it would make sense that it would happen when I was in Antwerp, or another city. Not there to be enough for him. Just like I was—would be—most of the time.

You can't get mad at logic.

"It was—"

"No, really, I don't want any details," I shook my head a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary.

"Fine. But, look, I don't want that anymore. I want to be with you."

 _For now,_ my brain helpfully added.

Yet another silence passed, and I began to wonder if there was anything else Sander had to say. Maybe something... something that could make my answer up for me. Something that could erase the part of me that wanted to say yes—because it was still there, screaming at me. Begging me not to let this pass. Or—I didn't want to let myself hope—something that could get rid of this logical anxiety that was sitting in my chest, in my gut as he stared at me. 

But he stayed silent. He stared at me, eyes wide, searching mine, so sure. Especially compared to me.

I had to give him an answer.

I couldn't give him an answer.

"I... I'm sorry. I can't—I can't answer that right now. Tonight."

Fuck. Fuck me.

Another moment passed, and Sander let out a breath I hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"That's... Okay," he took a half step back, giving me a bit more space. "I've already waited three months to ask you, I can wait however long you need." He nodded. A solemn nod. Maybe a sad one. I honestly was having trouble reading him. My brain was having trouble doing anything outside of listening to the argument echoing inside it. "But... think about it. Please."

I nodded. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be able to think about anything else for days.

"I know we can make it work."

I really wish I had the same level of confidence. It seemed to surround him. Emanate from him. Like a light.

That's never been me.

"I'm gonna... I think I should go back to my hotel," lamely, I shoved my hands into my pockets. Took a step to put even more space between us. More space for this awkward, uncomfortable, question-filled silence.

Fuck.

"Are you..." he paused, and then seemed to think better of himself. "Okay. Be safe."

He nodded, and I nodded back, and then I turned to walk down the street before it all became too overwhelming. Before things became too awkward while I ordered a car. I just...

"Sander," I glanced back over my shoulder just for a moment. Just to catch his eye one more time. Just so he could hopefully understand the silent apology I hoped my face was communicating. Just so he didn't hate me. "Just in case, I..." 

He nodded, like he knew what I was going to say.

"Happy Birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope you enjoyed this! Bahaha I know a lot of you were assuming there wouldn't be any boyfriend talk for MONTHS, but i say never underestimate Sander Driesen. He's held out asking that question since the first night in January. Poor guy jumped at the first opportunity provided to him.
> 
> Sure hope he survives the response.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think! Were you expecting Sander to ask the question? Do you think Robbe reacted appropriately? What should these poor boys do?


	11. May Flowers: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe needs time to think. But he also has a life to live. Family. Friends. Regular human needs. It's a tough balancing act.

"You know, honey, your father's birthday is this Thursday."

I paused, a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth, so that I could properly give my mom the Look. The one that I always used whenever the topic of my father came out of nowhere—which it usually did. The one she always pretended not to notice.

"Good for him," I muttered, quickly shoving the lettuce and tomato into my mouth before I could say anything more.

It's not very often I let my inner frustration come out when I'm around my mom. I prefer, now that I'm an adult, not to add extra stress to her life. It's just when we talk about him. But, hey—I'm pretty sure she's used to it by this point. It's been essentially the same since I was a teenager. Maybe less virulent with the passing of time, but...

It's not like he'd changed, either.

"Is it too much to ask for you to give him a call?"

We had just finished having a very pleasant conversation about how her week had gone while I was in City #3, during a very pleasant Sunday dinner, and I had no idea why she suddenly wanted to ruin things with the general unpleasantness that was my father.

"I'll text him."

I probably wouldn't.

"Robbe." I watched as my mom gently set her fork down next to her plate of chicken and rice, as her face hardened just a little bit as she gave me _her_ 'Look.' The one that always arrived moments before—"I know he's not exactly your favorite person, but he's still your father."

Genetically, yes. But socially? I had some rebuttals I could put up against that.

"When was the last time you spoke with him?"

Even ignoring the things that happened when I was younger—divorcing my mom, taking the house, trying to force me to live with him—there were plenty of reasons for me not to want to spend time with my father. For instance, there was the very telling fact that he was the only person I knew who had been truly, personally disappointed that David and I were no longer in a relationship. He called my ex a 'stand up guy,' when the question came up over Christmas.

I mean, if that doesn't tell you everything you need to know...

"Christmas eve," I sighed, knowing I was about to get an earful from my mom for letting almost half a year go by without reaching out. But it's not like he'd reached out either. Outside of birthdays and holidays, he hadn't reached out of his own accord in ages. He had a new son to focus on fucking up.

"Robbe—"

So I began to tune her out. What? I never said I was a perfect son. And it's not like we hadn't had this exact argument a dozen times before. I'm not exactly interested in hearing her explanation as to why I needed to be the bigger man. Why I would regret letting my relationship with my father slip through my fingers once I was older. We had been through it. She had her opinion and I had mine and, honestly, I just preferred it when we acted like it wasn't a thing.

I'll never understand why this topic was such a sticking point to her. When I asked, she only ever responded by saying her relationship with my father was 'complex.'

If I had to guess, I think there was still a part of her that blamed herself for him leaving.

And that—above all else—is something I could never forgive him for.

"I said I'll send him a text," I asserted as soon as I detected a lull in her lecture. "I'll make it a long one." I waited for a moment while my mom continued to give me her look of disapproval.

Fine.

"If he calls me, I promise I'll pick up." That was my final concession and, based on how my mom's stare softened, I think she knew that. 

"I'm sure he'd like that," she conceded. "Thank you. Now, how was work this week?"

I shook my head softly, fairly confident that my text wouldn't even get a response, but ready and willing to move on. It's not like either of us was planning on changing our tune on this particular topic.

"Same old story," I shrugged, finally slicing into the chicken and enjoying the scent of the lemony sauce that had been perfuming the entire apartment since I'd arrived. "Actually, I may have found an anomaly in some results on Friday. So that might be something."

"An anomaly? What does that mean?" 

I took a moment, grinning as I tried to figure out how to explain to my mostly-science-illiterate mother. I don't know who gave me my passion for all things science, but it definitely wasn't either of my parents.

"One lab's results went from not showing anything really significant last month, to suddenly being really promising. But they didn't report any change in procedure or materials or anything. I need to get with one of our statisticians this week and figure out if it's a fluke, or what."

My mom stayed silent for a moment, looking as if she was mulling my words over as she ate. I knew for a fact that this wasn't something that was actually interesting to her—I could tell she was forcing herself not to let her eyes glaze over—but I could also appreciate the fact that she was trying to pretend it was captivating.

"Well that's good you found it, right? What if it's not a fluke?"

"Then, most likely, someone just forgot to tell us about a change in their procedure. But there's also a chance it might be fraudulent results. The lab just got a new intern, and my boss says that new hires will sometimes fudge their results—to hide a screw-up or make themselves look more impressive to the head of the lab. So who knows." I shrugged, watching my mom nod along.

"Well if you did catch something," she said after a moment, "I hope they finally give you that promotion. Lord knows you deserve it. That would mean traveling less, right?"

I shook my head, knowing for a fact that, regardless of the result of my inquiry, a promotion wasn't even on the table.

"It'd depend on what I got promoted to," I said, instead of trying to correct her. "Might mean less, might mean more."

"How could it possibly be more?" She asked, suddenly sounding distraught. 

But I just laughed, shaking my head before I turned back to my plate of food.

"So, Mom. Have any plans for this week?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 **Robbe:** _Happy birthday_

I looked up from my phone as I felt a nudge at my shoulder, turning to accept the intricate, fragile-looking glass bong from Moyo before he could change his mind and take another hit. It had been way too long since I had gotten high with my friends, and honestly?

I fucking needed it.

With as much care as possible, I accepted the pipe from my friend. It was a sizable piece, much bigger than the little cheap ones Jens used to make out of used water bottles and Tupperware. With it nestled in my lap, I didn't even have to bend over to reach the mouth. As I held my hand out for the lighter—still a classic 99-cent piece from the convenience store—I let my hand trace the twisting braid of glass channels that ran up from the water bowl. This thing was expensive. The first splurge Moyo bought with his real adult paycheck. And I could feel him eyeing my every movement as I pulled a hit.

Lord knows he'd make me pay him back if I dropped it, or something.

As that earthy, musky smoke filled my lungs I could feel the stress of the last few days begin to melt away. The lightheadedness began to kick in before I even passed the pipe off to Jens—which meant I'd definitely lost my tolerance for the stronger stuff Noor liked to buy.

"Jesus." Speaking of, I heard Noor's voice filter out from her bedroom as I slowly exhaled the white smoke, letting myself sink into the comfortable cushions couch. "How many times do I have to tell you fuckers: smoke out the window. My landlord throws a hissy fit every time you idiots come over."

"What window?" Jens asked from the beanbag chair beside the couch, looking up at our host with a placid smile—he'd been sitting there and already high as fuck before I even arrived—as she pointed aggressively to the window behind the three of us.

"Noor, baby, that's so far away," Moyo whined next to me. And, as the sated calm began to fall over me, I had to agree. That did seem like a lot of work. 

"Tough shit," Noor glared as she stomped over to snatch the bong from Jens, stepping behind the couch to sit on the sill of the open window. "If you're going to use my stash—without asking—" I felt Moyo sink deeper into the couch cushions beside me, "you can at least follow my rules."

Her point was accentuated with the sound of a lighter flicking to life, of crackling, burning, and then the vigorous bubbling of smoke through water. Then, as if to prove how dumb she thought we all were, she very deliberately demonstrated leaning her head out the window and letting the smoke out in a stream of white.

While Moyo popped up and began to explain himself to his girlfriend, I let my attention be drawn away by the sudden sequence of vibrations buzzing into my leg. 

**Sander:** _Thanks_

 **Sander:** _Is it shitty of me to say i wish you were here?_

This. This is why I needed to get high. The last four days had been nothing but me stressing out, confused as fuck, trying to figure out what I was supposed to say to Sander about this whole... boyfriend thing

'Boyfriend thing.' Listen to me. Talking about it like it was some abstract concept and not the very real, very concrete question that Sander had pushed into my lap out of nowhere.

Fuck. No. It's not that. I can't even pretend like that's the truth of it. It wasn't out of nowhere. I know it wasn't. It was just... from a realm of thought that I'd refused to let myself indulge in. From day one. Because, logically, I knew—and had always known—the answer to this. And that answer was 'No.'

No, because a long-distance relationship like this was bound to fail. No, because it would make this whole constant traveling thing even harder. No, because there were already people who were local, and ready, and willing to sleep with Sander and be with Sander and... that's what he deserved. And I would never be able to not think about that fact. No, because—

 **Sander:** _I wish you were here_

But I didn't want to say no.

" _'Wish you were here'_? Oooooh!" Snapping me out of what little focus I'd been able to hold on my phone, I felt warm breath ghosting over my ear. The high-pitched, overly-excited squeak of glee as Noor leaned over the back of the couch, and—oh, fuck. "Who's _Sander_ and why is he wishing you were 'here'?" 

Fuck. Shit—I shoved my phone into my pocket. Fuckshitfuck.

"Nobody. Ah... he's just—"

"Who wishes they were here?" Jens asked, sounding a bit confused as he looked up at us with a glassy-eyed stare.

"Robbe's secret boyfriend," Noor crooned in response before I could figure out what to say. " _Sander_."

"You have a boyfriend? Dude, since when do you have a boyfriend?" Jens seemed to perk up a little, sitting taller in his bean bag. "Lucas is gonna be so disappointed."

"I don't—what?" I swung my head back and forth, looking from Noor's satisfied smirk to Jens's confused frown until I began to feel dizzy. "I don't have a boyfriend. And who the fuck is Lucas?"

"The guy from our work that we're setting you up with!" Moyo answered, sounding like he thought he was being helpful. 

"What?" I turned to look at my friend, and then back as Jens as I recalled our semi-drunken conversation from a month ago. "Jens! What the fuck, man! I told you I didn't want you setting me up with anyone!"

"Yeah!" Noor echoed, now clambering over the cushions to fall in place between me and Moyo. "Because, apparently, he's already taken."

"Well, shit—you could have told me _that_ ," Jens shook his head as I sputtered, disbelieving how incredibly stupid my friends could be. Pot was not a good enough excuse on its own. "I'm not trying to be a fucking... homewrecker—I wouldn't have talked you up so much. Poor Luc's gonna be devastated."

"That's really cold, man, leading a guy on like that," Moyo added, sounding... well and truly disappointed in me.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

"Wha... I—I didn't do anything!"

Maybe in another situation, I would have had a more eloquent response, but I was low on sleep and in the middle of a rapidly strengthening head-high, and more than anything my brain felt... broken. Broken by my friends' stupidity.

"Gentlemen! Please!" Noor interrupted my babbling, placing one hand on my shoulder and the other on Moyo's knee. "Can we all focus on what's really important here? Who is Sander and why do your very best friends know _nothing_ about him?"

And... yeah.

If you know a good way to answer that, please let me know...

"Sander..." I squirmed under Noor's expectant stare, forcing myself further into the corner of the couch. I wasn't yet high enough to try to get away with asking, _'Sander who?'_ but the thought did occur to me. "He's... just a guy."

A moment of silence passed, and for a second I let myself hope that that would be enough. I mean... I'm not an idiot, but sometimes you just have to hope. Right? High people get distracted all the time.

Then Noor shook her head and leaned in closer.

"Robbe, darling, don't forget. It may be more of a technicality than anything, but I'm still your ex-girlfriend—" Moyo and Jens huffed in laughter and I sank deeper into the corner of the cushions,"—and I know when you're lying."

"Yeah, man," Moyo added, his cheerful face appearing over Noor's shoulder. "Plus, you're a shit liar in general, so..."

"Especially when you're high," Jens threw in from the floor. "Remember freshman year when Robbe got too high at that dorm party and tried to convince us he liked boobs?"

"Fuck you guys, too." I glared as two of my oldest friends collapsed into a pile of giggles as they both tried to do impressions of my piss-poor attempts to be straight. "And I'm not lying."

"Mhmm. Okay, so I get why you're not telling these clowns," Noor rolled her eyes, pushing Moyo off her back before leaning in closer. "But you can tell me, right? C'mon. Do you want me to send them out? I can send them away." 

"I already told you," I shrugged myself even deeper into the cushions—something sharp poked into my back and I'm sort of scared to find out what it was—as I held Noor's stare. "He's just a guy I met."

"When'd you meet him?" Noor asked with a grin.

"I don't know," I lied. "A few months ago?"

"Months? Months! Robbe, I thought we were friends."

"Yeah, Robbe, I thought we were friends—"

"Shut up, babe." Noor glanced over her shoulder at a still giggling Moyo. "But seriously. Why haven't we met this guy?"

"Because..." I glanced between my friends before letting out a sigh and emerging slightly from the cushions. Honestly, what was even the point? In a few weeks, it was either going to be over or... yeah. It's not like Noor could make things any more complicated. And lying just sounded... so fucking difficult. "Because he doesn't live around here. We met when I was down south for work. But that doesn't change the fact that he's just a guy, okay?"

"Wait!" Jens suddenly sat up before breaking out into a huge smile. "Is this like that time Luca was 'dating' a guy from 'Berlin'?"

"Dude, yes!"

"Robbe, you know there's no shame in being single. You don't have to pretend to—"

"Okay!" Noor interrupted—thank God. "That's enough of that. You two, go buy us a pizza! No. No more talking. No puppy eyes. Pizza." Without allowing any room for argument, Noor stood and began to drag a complaining Moyo to his feet. "C'mon. You were just saying how hungry you were. Don't pretend you don't want pizza. Just a short walk—there you go. Good job guys, I knew you could do it."

And then, after a few minutes of coercion where I was left to stew in silence, Moyo and Jens departed on their quest for snacks and it was just the two of us. Me still nestled into the couch, now with a pillow in my lap to protect me from stupidity, and Noor sitting in the chair across from me with a soft smile.

"I'm proud of you."

"For what?" I grumbled, hugging my pillow tighter to my chest. I eyed the door over her shoulder suspiciously, taking it as a given that my friends were probably trying to eavesdrop on the other side. I couldn't see shadows or anything, but that's definitely something they would do.

This was not the relaxing hangout I was promised.

"Nothing," she smiled, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. "Tell me about Sander."

"I already told you. He's—"

" _'Just a guy'_ —I know." Noor finished for me, smile not slipping from her lips. "But he's the first _guy_ you've talked to in almost a year. I'm just glad it's someone. I was beginning to think you'd taken an oath of celibacy after... you know who."

I felt my face twist into a grimace. "Well, I didn't."

"But still. He's the first. I'm sure there's more to him than being _just_ a guy."

"Ah... How are you so sure he's the first?" I questioned, letting my inner brat come out for a moment of snark. "Maybe I've been slutting it up every time I leave Antwerp. A different guy in every city."

I could do that. If I wanted to.

"Robbe," with a sigh, Noor stood and walked over to a bookcase, picking up a picture—one I know was from when we first met. Still teenagers. Still closeted. Still pretending we enjoyed hanging off each other. She kept it out because Moyo and Jens and Aaron were there. If you didn't know any better, you could never tell it was from that horrible stretch of weeks when I tried so hard to prove I was straight. "I think I know you better than that."

"Fine," I pulled my feet under my legs and let my chin rest on the pillow. "He's the first."

And he's not just a guy.

"Wanna tell me about him?" Noor glanced over her shoulder, her smile softer. More sincere. More piercing. "With how much they smoked, we probably have a while before they make it back with the pizza."

"With how much they smoked, we'll be lucky if they remember the pizza at all."

And then a silence fell between the two of us. Not quite a comfortable one—my brain was racing against its own echoes way too much to call it that. But it wasn't bad. Noor filled the emptiness by wandering around her apartment, straightening photos and shoving some dirty dishes into the sink. It was a small place, not surprising as she'd had no desire to have a roommate, but she'd stuffed it full of herself. The wall was covered with pictures and brochures and tickets to various shows she'd put on. Plenty of unframed photos pinned to the walls—each, I knew, with her signature and a date on the back.

"He's an artist," I spoke more into the pillow than anything else as I broke the silence, but I could tell Noor still heard me. "You'd probably get along with him."

"Having an affair with an artist in another city? Do I have to tell you just how cliche that is?"

With a graceful spin, Noor finished shoving her yoga mat into an overstuffed closet and walked over to lower herself back onto the couch beside me.

"It's not an affair," I rolled my eyes, finally releasing my hold on the pillow so that I could sit up like a normal person. 'Affair' made it feel... dirty.

It wasn't dirty.

"Then what are you calling it? Hook up?" Noor asked, eyebrow arched slightly.

I don't know if it was me finally settling into my high, or what. But there was something soothing about the way Noor was smiling at me. Something that reminded me of that long, late night in college. After we'd started talking again. After we'd forgiven each other. When I got her to admit that she'd hooked up with Moyo at a party. But the reverse of that. Like it was my turn, now.

"No," I finally admitted. "It's more than a hookup."

And Noor just smiled like that was the best news she'd heard all day.

"That would explain the 'wish you were here,' I guess." 

It wasn't until I looked away, out the window, that I realized I was smiling, too.

"It's his birthday today." And then I shook my head, remembering our previous conversation and all the ways it had fucked with my head. "And he, uh... he asked me to be his boyfriend. Last week."

I shrugged and glanced at my lap, not wanting to watch as Noor's smile grew.

"Robbe!" She reached over to shove playfully at my shoulder. "That's awesome—I'm so happy for you!"

"Well, I mean..." I sighed, feeling suddenly embarrassed by myself. "I haven't given him an answer yet." And then, because I felt the need to make myself seem less lame, "I wasn't really expecting the question."

To be completely fair, I get the idea that Sander wasn't exactly expecting to ask it, either. At least not yet. But he'd gone through with it anyway.

Fuck—was I going scare him off with my indecisiveness?

"Seems fair." Noor offered me a little shrug before scooting to be a little closer, a little more conspiratorial. "Are you considering it?"

Fuck.

I am.

"It's complicated," I insisted, instead. "It'd be one thing if he lived here—or I lived there, or whatever. But I'd have to be an idiot to expect a long-distance relationship to work."

"So?" Noor smiled, shaking her head softly. "Everyone's an idiot when it comes to relationships. A certain level of stupidity is pretty much required to even try it."

I felt myself smirk at her words as Noor leaned into my side.

"Is that supposed to be encouraging?"

"I'm just saying—it's always a risk. Even when the set up is perfect, and there's nothing standing in your way, most people end up heartbroken a lot more often than they find 'the one.'"

I leaned back into Noor, beginning to feel a little giggly as she pushed back against my weight. 

"I honestly can't tell if this is supposed to convince me to date him or give up guys forever."

"Then you're not paying attention!" A soft knock to my head, and then Noor was standing, pacing on the other side of the coffee table. "Alright. One-word answers only. You like this guy?"

"Ah... yes?" I couldn't hold off my grin as Noor began to tap at her chin, like she was in the middle of solving a mystery.

"And how's the sex? Good?"

"Noor!" I laughed out, ready to toss a pillow at her head.

"Answer the question."

"Yes, fine!" I admitted, breaking down in laughter under her appraising stare. "It's good."

It's very good.

"Noted," she grinned. "But please keep your answers to one word going forward—" I watched her purposefully ignore my eye-rolling, "—now, you said things would be different if he lived here. Is that because you would say yes? If distance wasn't an issue?"

I paused for a moment, feeling my stomach flip as she fixed me with yet another expectant stare. But the pause wasn't really necessary. I hadn't put much thought into it, but I'm pretty sure I already knew what my answer was.

"...Probably." 

Noor held out her hands as if that was the most important thing I'd said all day.

"And he's a good guy? Nice? Not another... you know."

 _Yes._ I'm pretty sure.

But...

"I thought David was a good guy."

And... yeah.

With a sigh, Noor stopped her pacing, coming to sit back on the couch, to wrap her arms around my shoulder in a tight, quick hug. "Not every guy is going to be like that asshole."

"I know," I swallowed deeply as I felt my stomach flip again. And it's not like I thought Sander was going to suddenly become another David. I didn't.

_I didn't._

But still...

We were still sitting like that, and I was still trying to come up with an answer when the apartment door burst open, Jens stumbling in before a triumphant Moyo appeared with two big brown boxes in his hands.

"Pizza!"

Before they could notice enough to ask, Noor gave me one final squeeze and stood from the couch.

"Finally! What'd you two get?"

"Pepperoni!" Jens yelled triumphantly. "And... uh..." He glanced over his shoulder at Moyo, questioningly.

"Extra pepperoni!"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 **Robbe:** _Im not going south this week. Stuck in bed with the flu._

 **Robbe:** _I just wanted to let you know._

 **Sander:** _Oh shit are you ok?_

 **Robbe:** _No. I am not okay. I want to die._

 **Sander:** _Anything I can do to help?_

 **Robbe:** _You can hire an assassin to put me out of my misery. I wont even put up a fight and no one will press charges._

 **Sander:** _Very funny._

 **Sander:** _How about I get some soup delivered to your place. What's your address?_

 **Robbe:** _You don't have to do that._

 **Sander:** _Soup and flowers. Order form is already filled out. Itll be there for dinner tonight_

 **Sander:** _I just need your address._

Okay. So. Two things. One: I've never had a guy buy me flowers before.

David never did it in the two-plus years we dated. I thought Jens did, once, as a joke, but it turned out to have been a first-year girl who stuffed those in my locker. And so I can't even explain to you the stupid little thrill that went through my feverish, achy body when Sander said he wanted to send me flowers. 

It had to have been because I was sick. I refuse to believe that I'm that easily swayed otherwise.

And two: over the past three weeks, Sander and I had clearly entered some new kind of... status, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that.

I mean, yes. To his credit, he completely stuck by his promise to give me space. He's good like that.

I'm the one who couldn't maintain the silence. Once I got through wishing Sander a happy birthday, I just... didn't stop. 

It felt too weird, those days of quiet after our last conversation. It made me feel like... like I was letting something slip away. And even if I wasn't in a place where I wanted to grab onto that something and make it, like... concrete. I didn't want to let it slip away while I agonized over my decision.

So we talked. Kept it to texts, nothing sexy, no calls, no pictures. And it was nice. It was always nice.

But it was definitely different.

I'm not sure what it was. Maybe it was because of the silent acknowledgment that whatever we had was going to change. One way or another. Or maybe Sander was having trouble deciding if he should give me more space or lay on the charm. And maybe I couldn't decide which I wanted him to do, either.

But we were in this weird state. Where he never reached out first, always waited for me to send the first message of the day. Where he flirted, but only sometimes, and never when it was late enough that we might get carried away. Where sometimes his messages seemed sad, and sometimes they were so cocky they made me roll my eyes.

It's... I don't know.

And, look. I'm not going to say that I was _glad_ , exactly, that I came down with the flu a day before I was supposed to head back to City Number 3. Nor was I _glad_ that my company's rules prevented travelling within three days of confirmed infectious illness. Because, honestly, being laid up in bed with a high fever and aches, only getting up for the occasional emergency vomiting... it sucked. But I'd absolutely be lying if I said there wasn't some relief knowing the pressure to give him an answer would disappear. At least for a few days.

But, to be clear, I hate being sick. I was fucking miserable. And I wanted to die. Preferably very quickly.

And the thought of having some good, hopefully delicious soup delivered directly to my door? That sounded amazing. Milan is... great at very many things. Being a nurse wasn't one of them. And neither was cooking.

And yeah, maybe it felt weird—letting Sander know I wouldn't be going to see him and sort of getting a reward out of it. If I was healthy, I might have even felt guilty about it. But, as it was, I wasn't healthy. And it was approaching dinner time. And my stomach was so fucking empty that I had no problem dealing with weird. And I refused to feel guilty for giving Sander my address that morning.

Plus. Flowers. I mean... come on. I'm only so proud.

 **Sander:** _Did they arrive yet the app isn't updating_

I crawled out from under my covers to grab my phone, only to have Sander's words leave me feeling even hungrier. God, it had been a full day since I'd eaten anything other than ice chips and dry crackers.

 **Robbe:** _Not yet. When is it supposed to be here?_

 **Robbe:** _Thank you, by the way_

 **Sander:** _hold on the app just updated_

I looked up as the familiar buzz of our apartment door rang out, burrowing deeper into my comforter when I heard Milan's call of 'I'll get it!'

 **Robbe:** _I think its here_

I heard the door open, the exchange of a few words, the rustling of bags. Too far away from my room to make out, but I swear I could already smell the soup. Fuck, I love soup.

 **Sander:** _Awesome_

I grinned as much as I could make myself, trying not to feel disappointed at the fact that it was probably time to put on some clothes and at least try to look respectable in front of my roommate. 

And then I felt my phone vibrate one last time.

 **Sander:** _Dont be mad_

"Robbe?" Milan's sing-song voice pushed through the crack of my door before I could parse that last message. "You have a delivery!"

And then there was a knock, and my door cracked open, and—

"And also a delivery boy."

White hair. Tan skin. A beautiful bouquet of flowers and smile that was way, way too wide to be anything but a pre-emptive apology. 

Why... my illness-addled brain struggled to comprehend what I was seeing in my doorway.

Why was Sander in my room? My apartment? Antwerp in general?

Why...

"Surprise!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this and the next chapter, I consider that I'm taking a departure from the normal course of a story like this. If this was a normal slow burn, then Sander asking to become official would chase Robbe away. Scare him away. And there's a part of that that Robbe will have to deal with—he is definitely scared. But that classic method of doing slow burns doesn't really feel right for this story (I may actually remove the tag). It would work if they were still teenagers, but they're in their twenties in this story. They know themselves more. They're going to handle things more maturely.
> 
> This is not to say that there won't be drama in this story. Just... I want drama to be less because of a lack of communication, and more because of the unavoidable difficulties of trying to have a long-distance relationship.
> 
> Like I said at the beginning of this story, I still don't know what the final solution will be like for these two. I want it to feel real and natural, and I made sure to give them both reasons they can just pick up their lives and move to another city. 
> 
> Anyway, that is to say, this is why Robbe and Sander didn't go on radio-silence for an entire month. At this point in their relationship, they're connected. And they're both doing what they're doing because neither of them wants to get hurt. Or hurt the other.
> 
> Real life is tough.


	12. May Flowers: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Sander's in Antwerp. And Robbe's sick.
> 
> And Robbe's a little cranky when he's sick. Yeah. That's why.
> 
> And Sander's... well, he's Sander.

I'm an idiot.

Such a fucking idiot.

That's the only possible excuse for how I didn't see this coming.

And you know what?

_So is Sander._

"Well, you appear to be in good hands," over Sander's shoulder—because he was standing in the door to my room, in my _apartment_ , in _Antwerp_ —I could see Milan giving me this sly smile. Like he'd caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. Like he thought this had been planned by me. And I had no idea how to communicate to him from my bed that that was so very much not the case. "So I'm heading out. Robbe, I'll be at club 544 if you need me. And—Sander, right?"

As Sander turned I tried to give my roommate an incredulous, _'don't you dare leave me,'_ kind of look, but he just flashed me a big grin before turning back to my... to Sander.

Fuck me.

"Yeah. You must be Milan. Nice to meet you." Shuffling the large, beautiful, glaringly colorful bunch of flowers to the hand holding a few shopping bags, Sander reached out to introduce himself. I couldn't see his face but I could hear the sheepish smile in his voice.

Fuck him. He _knew_ this wasn't what he should have been doing.

"The pleasure is all mine," Milan returned the shake with a little bow of his head. "Now, just a warning: he gets a little snippy when he's sick. So make sure he takes his medicine and try not to rile him up too much, and—"

"I'm not a child." 

I finally found my voice. Scratchy, strained, and honestly directed at both of them.

I don't like being treated like a child.

For a moment they both looked at me, but I focused on Milan. His smile softened a bit, less sarcastic, and finally I saw him ask with his eyes, _'is this okay?'_

And no. I'm not entirely sure it was. But it's not like he could do anything to help. And I did my best to communicate that with a look of my own.

Meanwhile, Sander was still staring at me, smiling wide, empty hand beginning to tap rapidly at his thigh.

"Alright, well, call me if you need anything." With a final smile, Milan spun and began to walk toward our door. I guess he got at least that part of my message. "I'll be back by 11 to take over!"

I'm not sure if that was meant for Sander or me.

In the moment of silence that followed the apartment door slamming shut, I finally let myself turn my attention—my glare—to Sander. Now that the surprise had faded, and my heart had settled, and the image of him standing awkwardly in my doorway no longer filled me with panic, there wasn't much venom behind it. Because a part of me _was_ happy. To see him. To see him standing in my room. There to take care of me. And that was tempering the part of me that wanted to tell him off for tricking me—betraying my trust, really, and intruding on my space when I was not prepared for it. I just didn't have the energy to do that. Too sick. So I just sort of glared at him—as he set down his bags and shifted the bunch of flowers once again and re-upped his smile. 

"Do you have a vase for these?"

I wondered what his plan was. If he even had a plan. I wondered how he thought I'd react to this.

"Kitchen," I mumbled, pulling my comforter tighter around my shoulders. "Under the sink."

A small silence passed between us before Sander nodded and recollected his bags and exited my room. A few seconds later, I heard clunks and clanks and cabinets opening. Water rushing through our creaky pipes, and then... a softer quiet. I thought I might have heard humming as one minute passed and then another, and I tried to use that time to figure out what the fuck I was supposed to be feeling in my head and in my heart and in my gut, and...

I felt like I was being rude. I _knew_ he was being rude—a special kind of rude, but still. I enjoyed seeing him, I did, but as I pictured him rummaging through my kitchen, I felt... stressed. That momentary calm that I'd felt guilty for experiencing when I first realized I wouldn't be traveling south that week... it was gone. The pressure was back. Even if Sander never said a word.

His footsteps gave me enough time to burrow even deeper into my fortress of sheets and pillows and warmth so that I didn't have to figure out how to look at him when he walked back in. All I heard was shuffling coming from my windowsill. A dull thunk as something was placed on the old wood, and then a sigh. Not sad. Just... I don't know.

"I'll let you know when the soup’s done." Admittedly, his tone of voice surprised me enough to prompt me to emerge just a bit from my cocoon. Because... I sort of expected him to sound resigned. Even if I wasn't being vocally upset at him, there's no way that _this_ was the reaction he'd been hoping for when he concocted... whatever his plan was. I may not have, y'know, kicked him out, but I also hadn't jumped into his arms. There's no way he could consider this a victory. 

But he didn't sound sad. And when I poked my head out of my covers, shivering slightly as the cool air hit my face, he just smiled at me. A soft smile. And then he nodded. And then he left. Walked back to the kitchen and left me to my own devices while muted music from his phone began to filter through the apartment.

The flowers took up almost my whole window, placed slightly-precariously on the ledge in a big ceramic vase Milan sometimes filled when he wanted the apartment to smell like spring. The golden-red light of dusk was almost at its last, but it was still bright enough to illuminate the bouquet. And the flowers, they were beautiful. Roses and chrysanthemums and lilies and... those are really the only flowers I know how to identify, but there were more. So many more. I knew that, if I wanted to, I could probably focus on how much they must have cost. I could have let myself get angry about that, given myself a gentle nudge right over the edge.

But they were beautiful. They were so goddamn beautiful. The first flowers a guy had ever bought me and, sitting in the light of dusk, they looked like they belonged in a museum. I felt sad that I was too stuffed up to smell them. _Sad_. Just looking at them wasn't enough. And moments later, I was standing, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a cape, letting my fingers trace the petals and leaves and stems. Testing the thorn of the rose, and...

God, why can't anything just be _simple_ with him? 

Why can't I ever just be angry? Or uncomfortable? Why does he always have to do something—flowers, or breakfast, or murals—that gets in the way of that? Did that even make sense? Was I crazy for wanting something simple, even if it was so negative?

Why did I want that?

Why did wanting that make me feel so... broken?

"It won't be ready for about fifteen minutes," Sander glanced up from the pot as I entered the kitchen, but just for a moment. The soup was apparently too important to look away.

I ignored him.

Our kitchen is small, so it was only two and a half steps before I was directly behind him. And before he could react, I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my forehead to his spine, and pulled myself as tight as possible to his back.

"What are you doing here?"

I mumbled it against his shoulder. I was sure that if I said it loud, at normal talking volume, he'd be able to hear how good I felt when I was holding him like that. And I didn't want to give him that.

"Making you soup and delivering you flowers." Sander didn't turn away from the stove, but I felt one of his hands cover mine. "Are you mad at me?"

"Yes," I lied.

"No," I lied again.

"Why didn't you just have them delivered?" I asked, rubbing my forehead back and forth against the nape of his neck. The pressure felt good. His skin against mine felt good—though, for once, he was actually cool against my fever.

"Just wanted to see the smile on your face." He squeezed my hand one more time before letting go to stir the pot.

"You haven't made me smile yet," I deadpanned, exaggerating the scratchiness of my voice. Trying to make it clear how miserable I felt—and how he definitely, probably wasn't helping.

"Well, you haven't tried my soup yet."

God. He sounded so pleasant. Why couldn't he understand that _pleasant_ was not the right mood when I was sick and confused and... ugh. I just wanted to feel crappy in peace. This was the opposite of peace.

"You shouldn't have come all this way for that." With a final sigh, and a chill running down my spine, I forced myself to let go. I needed to cough and—regardless of how I felt about this whole situation—I did not want to get Sander sick as well.

_I don't know any good recipes for soup._

"Meh. I didn't mind," he shrugged as I pulled my blanket cape tighter around my shoulders. "And it wasn't all that far. The train was more convenient than I thought it would be. Practically simple."

"Mhmm," I leaned against the counter.

"Easy, really. Almost fun. And some beautiful landscapes. You always make it sound so annoying when you complain about it."

I can't tell for sure if I bristled because of his words, or if it was just another achy chill running down my spine.

"I don't complain about it," this time I did feel myself bristle. Just a bit. "And if I do, it's because I have to deal with twice a week. Not just for a random... joyride."

A pause fell between us, with nothing but some unfamiliar music and the occasional sounds of Sander messing with the soup filling the small kitchen.

"I don't know," Sander shrugged. "I feel like I could do it twice a week—no problem. Depending on the reason."

And then he glanced over his shoulder with a smile, and I could tell he thought he was just so damn sly. But no. He's not. His face may be gorgeous but it's also an open book. I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he was saying, under his words. That he would happily come to Antwerp every week. For the right reason. For me.

And— _fuck_ —I wanted to be mad that he would try to slip something like that in when I was so obviously not in the mood. But I couldn't _just_ be mad. I couldn't help the part of me that bubbled with excitement. Because even if it was just for the moment... he wanted to put in the effort. Some effort.

Fuck why can't it just be simple? Why can't I ever just be mad?

"You're not staying here tonight," I muttered after the silence became a bit too intrusive. 

"Not even if you invited me," I could hear the grin in his voice as he turned to empty a bag of noodles into the broth. "I booked a hotel. You may look adorable but I can't afford to get sick right now. Zoë might actually kill me."

I scoffed, shifting my blanket-cape to one side.

"What, you're saying if I asked you to go lay down with me right now, you'd say no?"

Yeah-fucking-right. I bet I could sneeze in his face and still give him a hard-on. Which is... gross to think about. So, let's not.

"Why don't you ask and find out?"

I shook my head as I tried not to think of how good it would feel to be laying in bed and have him holding me, running his fingers through my hair and pressing soft kisses to my temple and—

Ugh. Fucker.

"I'm going back to bed," I forced myself to shake those images from my mind. I had to keep reminding myself that I was mad at him. "Let me know when the soup is done."

"It'll be done in, like, two minutes," Sander called over the music as I shuffled slowly back to my room.

"Then get me in two minutes!"

+++++++++++++++++++++

The soup was good. Damn good. And, based on the soft smile that Sander couldn't seem to wipe off his face as we ate, he was fully aware of that fact.

"You like it?"

Chicken noodle soup. Some soft, buttery bread. Hot tea with honey and lemon, but also some ice water. Sander had laid out quite a spread when he finally came to retrieve me—definitely more than two minutes later. And it was all so fucking good. Good enough that I could feel something about the meal settling into my bones. Settling me.

Making me feel a bit more human.

And there was Sander, with his smile, fidgeting in his chair like a schoolboy waiting to be told he'd done good.

"It's delicious," I nodded instead of waxing as poetic as this soup was making me feel.

"Good enough to get a smile?" Without taking his eyes off me, Sander dunked a piece of bread into his bowl, grinning when he saw me roll my eyes.

He was so close to me, practically pressed against my side. Milan and I don't have a dining room, per se, so if we're not eating at the coffee table in the living room, then the little table shoved into the corner of the kitchen is where we sit when we want to feel a bit more proper. But with all the food and drink that Sander had laid out on that table, there was hardly enough room for the both of us. Jammed into the corner. Legs brushing and knees bumping and—I wasn't going to let him play footsie, but occasionally his socked feet would find their way on top of mine and they felt so _warm_.

"Did you forget that I'm mad at you?" I slipped my foot out from under his to prove my point, but he just smiled.

"Yeah, but this is like the best goddamn soup in the multiverse, so..."

And, God damn if that wasn't enough to wrest the tiniest smile onto my lips. And I couldn't hide it—he saw. I knew he saw. And he knew I knew he saw. But he didn't say anything. Just knocked his knee into mine and sat back in his chair, and I did my best to ignore it by having some more soup.

It was really good soup.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't be mad when you showed up?" I asked once he finally stopped staring at me _like that._

"Honestly?" He paused, not continuing until I nodded. Of course, honestly. Dumbass. "I figured you would be. At least... probably a better chance of you being mad than not."

My spoon clanked against the bottom of my bowl as I dropped it. Not quite sure I believed what I'd just heard.

"What! You asshole, you knew I'd be mad?"

"I mean, I have _some_ idea of how you're going to react to things, Mr. IJzermans." He laughed, a light, pleasant laugh that seemed completely unaffected by the glare I was directing his way. "I'm not completely oblivious." 

"Then why did you do it!"

"I wanted to see you." he shrugged, like it was just that simple. And I found myself on the balanced on the edge between laughter and outrage because— _what the fuck?_ "Felt like a risk worth taking. And since you didn't slam the door in my face..."

"Well... that was stupid," is what I said. Explicitly choosing not to mention that it was also selfish, self-centered... a bit egotistical. And some other negative personality traits that I can't think of right now.

But Sander didn't seem all that upset. And he wasn't smiling like he was telling a joke. Instead, he was looking at me with this very curious stare. Mouth screwed into a half-smile, spoon tapping against the table, eyes narrowed, almost suspiciously. Like something had just occurred to him.

"You're not a very big fan of taking risks, are you?"

I... what?

"What?" I coughed as soup accidentally went down the wrong pipe. "The hell?"

There was a pause as Sander tore off another chunk of bread. But instead of dunking it into the broth, he just stared at it. Quietly. Turning it over in his hands for a few seconds. And I just sat there, watching him look at his bread. Not quite sure if I was supposed to feel offended, or if the sudden spike of adrenaline in my chest was from something else.

"I dunno. Just... I figured the guy who can breathe fire, and, y'know, jumped off a three-story building as a teenager would be more comfortable with doing risky shit." Finally, his fingers dropped the bread into his bowl, just to push it around the golden broth with his spoon.

"I’m _fine_ with risk. Maybe I'm just better at knowing when stupid shit is worth doing." I insisted, pointedly ignoring the fact that I have the x-rays and scars to prove otherwise.

"Maybe," he shrugged, but it didn't sound like he believed me. "You have all those stories of you doing crazy, awesome shit with your friends. Maybe it's just... ah, who knows. Maybe I'm just talking out of my ass." He paused for a moment before shrugging again.

"Haven't you ever done something stupid for a guy you liked?"

Oh. Heh. 

Yeah.

Sabotaging Jens's relationships when we were younger. Losing my virginity to a guy from the skatepark—who never called me back. A countless number of regrettable texts which meant I would probably never be able to run for office. Essentially... everything I did for David.

My dating history may be short, but _that_ particular list goes on for quite a while.

"Fine," I muttered, looking down at my soup so that I didn't have to see the look of satisfaction on Sander's face. "But it doesn't change the fact that it was a stupid decision."

Whatever. Even if I could understand... I still wasn't going to _reward_ him for it.

"Stupid decisions are my specialty," I could hear his grin, and couldn't keep myself from grinning in return. "They've made me the man I am today."

Yeah. Me too.

"Like what?" I said instead, letting myself sound a bit less prickly than I had all night. I guess he deserved at least that much. He was, after all—in his own very stupid way—trying to be sweet. And that tension I'd been feeling since he'd shown up... it was more muted. Less urgent.

Manageable.

"Hmm?"

"Come on. I want to hear stupid Sander stories." I knocked my knee into his under the table and tried to replicate his self-satisfied smile with my own added layer of sarcasm. I watched him become more hesitant as he ate another spoonful of soup, and I’m not ashamed to admit it gave me an immense amount of joy.

What? Don't judge me.

"Uh... pass?"

"No passes. I'm sick." I made a big show of coughing into my elbow. "You can't say no when I'm sick."

"Fuck," I watched, immensely satisfied as Sander shook his head, resigned. "This is what life with you is gonna be like, isn't it? Fine."

Um, just gonna move right past that one.

"C'mon. At least something on par with my broken arm. You owe me that."

"Okay, okay! Jeez, give me a second."

I laughed as Sander sat back, looking a little flustered. Huh. Maybe this unexpected visit wasn’t so bad after all.

Or, I guess what I really mean is: If Sander wants to put me in a slightly uncomfortable situation then there’s no goddamn reason I shouldn’t enjoy doing the same to him.

A moment of silence passed as Sander and I both finished our bowls of soup. He finally cleared his throat as I sopped up the last of the broth with the last of my bread, flashing me a cagey smile for a second before beginning.

"So... I've been arrested twice."

"What! Twice?"

Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was one. But twice?

"Well, three times if you count the murder charges. But don't worry—I beat those no problem when they couldn't find the bodies."

I hesitated for a moment—because I _knew_ he was joking and I was not about to honor him with a response—but he broke into a smirk before I could even roll my eyes.

"Hilarious," I deadpanned as Sander started giggling.

"I thought so."

"Clearly."

I shook my head as his grin grew wider, otherwise refusing to engage as he wiggled happily in his chair. 

"So if it's not murder, what do I need to watch out for? Hmm? Kidnapping? Tax evasion? Vehicular manslaughter?”

I sat back as Sander stood to place our bowls in the sink. Letting him take a moment to compose himself, and letting myself relax as he took care of everything. Took care of me.

Okay, maybe this wasn't so bad for other reasons, too.

"Breaking and entering, actually," he said over his shoulder, running the sink enough to fill the bowls and begin rinsing them out.

"You sure it wasn't for being a public nuisance?" I asked, trying not to show how intrigued I actually was.

Breaking and entering? That's like... a real crime. Sort of. Depending on the situation, I guess.

"I mean, it's essentially the same thing. Right?"

"Not in the slightest."

Eventually, I helped clear the rest of the table. Well, sort of. I may have played up my aches and pains and cough a bit. A lot. Enough to successfully convince Sander that I wasn't good for much more than taking our glasses to the sink. But honestly, he was here of his own accord. Pretty sure making him clean everything up was beyond fair. And it's not like there was a lot to clean up. The kitchen was clean and we were back in my room, seated on opposite ends of my bed, within a few minutes.

"So what did you actually get arrested for?" 

"The first time or the second time?" Sander asked as he rearranged a pillow behind his back to make a more comfortable seat. Across the bed, his leg was stretched out so that it was still laying atop mine, and he seemed to be putting a lot of effort to make sure he never had to break contact with me while he was rearranging his space.

"Let's go chronologically," I hummed, pushing at his thigh with my foot. 

"Well the first one was the legitimate one," he clarified, finally finding a configuration of pillows that satisfied his apparently very particular needs. "When I was fifteen, I broke into an animal shelter and tried to free all the dogs and cats in the middle of the night."

"You what?" I sputtered out a barely contained laugh. I hadn't quite expected _that_. "Why in the fuck did you do that?"

"I was in the middle of a—very short-lived—phase of militant veganism. And the internet taught me some, uh... questionable ideals."

"Oh my god," I laughed, letting myself fall into the pillows remaining at my end. I had sacrificed more than half my cocoon for Sander’s comfort but... things were still cozy. I’d kept Milan’s expensive memory pillow for myself. "Sander! How many did you free before you got caught?"

"Um... three cats. I made it through three cats before one of them attacked with some _very_ sharp claws. And that's right around the time the cops showed up, so... not the biggest success.” He scratched sheepishly at the back of his head. “Now that I think about it, I doubt any of the animals actually left the building."

"Oh, poor baby Sander." I grinned, imagining a tiny, green-haired—for some reason, that's the only way I could picture it—teen getting attacked by a feral cat. "So, what? Did they make you do community service or something?"

"Yeah. Well, that's actually what pushed my parents to realize there was something going on with me. Y'know. Once we got the bipolar diagnosis, the judge sorta went easy on me. Just a couple weekends of picking up trash."

"Ah—come on! That's no fair!" I kicked at his thigh again, getting a questioning look in return. "I wanted something I could laugh at you for. I can't... mock you for something you did when you were having an episode!"

"Uh, yes. You definitely can. Please," Sander kicked back, narrowly missing kicking me in a place that would have ended poorly for _both_ of us. "I've done a lot of stupid shit while manic. I haven’t committed a crime in a while but trust me. If it’s gonna happen...”

He paused, finger tapping at his thigh, and I realized what he was really saying. _It’s going to happen. It’s going to keep happening._

“It’s much better when it’s something we can laugh about."

“Fine,” I forced as comfortable a grin as I could manage in hope of keeping things fun, and light—and, most importantly, letting Sander know I was listening. Even if it felt a bit off. “So Baby Sander’s first act of eco-terrorism was a flop.”

Still, it felt weird. There weren’t a lot of chances to make light of what my Mom did while untreated. I guess aggressive paranoia just isn’t as funny as breaking and entering.

Nope, still weird.

“Yeah... first and only.” He grinned, though not yet looking fully comfortable. “I had a sausage a month later and realized I was not actually meant to be a vegan.”

“I tried to go vegetarian once, in college.” For a guy. Who was an activist, and whom I thought would be impressed by my dedication.

He wasn’t. 

Also, he was straight. Just very pretty.

“That lasted, like, a month.”

“It’s hard! Right?”

“I know! God, at least I could eat cheese and pasta—all I ate was cheese and pasta. The entire time. How did you even survive as a vegan?”

“A lot of frozen vegan burgers. And rice and canned beans. And... that's pretty much it.”

We both laughed, falling to our sides as our legs tangled together.

“Fuck. Please tell me you also feel guilty about giving it up?” Sometimes when I’m eating a burger, I feel like I’ve personally failed Greta Thunberg.

“So fucking guilty,” Sander lamented through another bout of laughter.

Somehow—not sure exactly when—we rearranged ourselves in our laughter. So that my head was in his lap, and he was sitting against the wall, fingers in my hair. 

I may have forgotten about being mad at him, by that point.

“Okay,” I hummed, closing my eyes as Sander traced patterns across my still feverish skin. “Enough distractions. Tell me about arrest number two.”

“That one was bullshit,” Sander replied, voice soft and surprisingly soothing. 

“How is getting caught breaking and entering bullshit?” I asked softly, nuzzling a bit deeper into his lap.

I’d been right, before. This felt so fucking good. And I was too sick to be proud.

“Because it was an abandoned warehouse!” I felt his fingers tense into my scalp for an instant. “Why does it matter if you graffiti a warehouse with nothing in it?”

“How did you get caught graffiti-ing an abandoned warehouse?”

“I guess it had a security system.”

“Sounds like it wasn’t so abandoned, then. Doesn’t it?” I brought my hand up to trace along his leg, teasingly. 

“Literally no one was ever there. No people, no equipment—“

“Except the security system. Apparently.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Sander asked, voice still soft but noticeably wry.

I thought back to our first date—yes, whatever, it was a date; I have more confusing things to worry about now—and how Sander led me into an ‘abandoned’ construction site.

Good to know he wasn’t the type to learn his lesson.

“I am.”

“You’re gonna get off later, thinking about me being a criminal, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see them. “Such a bad boy. So hot.”

Okay. Maybe I would be imagining Sander in handcuffs and his leather jacket once he left. Just don’t tell him I told you that.

“You should hear the things I didn’t get caught doing.”

“Nah,” I grinned. “It’s only hot when you get arrested.”

“Fuck you.” I turned so I could see Sander’s smile, and... it was good.

This felt good.

A moment of silence sat between us, comfortable and soothing as we looked at each other. It felt a bit weird. In a good way, but still. I'm used to extended silences being a sign that something had gone wrong. And in our first few dates, Sander had always seemed eager to fill any silence that showed itself for more than a few seconds. But now...

Like I said, it was comfortable. Soothing, like the fingers that were still tracing invisible paths through my hair.

It gave me a chance to really look at him. At beyond just how pretty his face was. At the way his smile faltered, just for a moment, and the way his eyes were dancing constantly across my face.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked almost relieved when I asked it aloud. Like he’d been waiting to let something out—something that, clearly, I’d been too sick or self-involved to notice.

Then he gave me a funny, sort-of-screwy smile, and I did my best to return the gesture.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked after another moment. And his voice was still light, but I could hear something else behind it. Heavily masked, but it was in there. 

Fear. Concern.

And I’m not sure if he was talking about the ambush, or flowers, or dinner, or what he’d just told me. Or if he was asking if he’s screwed up something more just by being there.

But it didn’t matter. My answer was the same, regardless.

“Not in this universe.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++

When I awoke to the sound of my door opening, my head was no longer in Sander’s lap. I was under my sheets and blankets, head on a pile of pillows, and the familiar silhouette of Milan was looking down on me from the doorway.

“Where’s Sander?” I asked, still a little groggy. I started to push myself up but Milan waved me back down as he leaned against the doorframe.

“He left for his hotel a bit ago. Said he didn’t want to wake you. Very considerate, that one.”

I hummed in affirmation, more focused on trying to parse exactly how I felt about waking up alone like that. 

I settled on the opinion that I didn’t exactly love it.

“I didn’t know you two were serious enough for a house call,” Milan mused as he walked over to sit on the edge of my bed. “Someone’s been keeping secrets—not that you have to tell me these things. I’m just your roommate. Guru. One of your oldest friends. The person who—“

“It was a surprise to me too,” I muttered, shoving my face into the pillows in a futile attempt to recapture my sleep. I’d been having a very nice dream.

“Thought that might be the case,” I felt my mattress shift under Milan’s weight, and then a hand on my shoulder. “Was it a good surprise?”

I nodded into the pillow.

As conflicted as I’d felt at the beginning... it had been good. It helped that Sander hadn’t forced a conversation about our relationship. We’d just... talked.

And it had been good.

“Well, that’s a relief.” I looked up to see Milan smiling at me. “I thought you were gonna kill me for leaving you with those looks you were sending my way.”

“No,” I shook my head, already feeling myself start to calm back down. “You’re good.”

“Awesome. Well, you can give me _all_ the gory little details tomorrow,” he squeezed my shoulder and then stood before I could respond. “You need your beauty sleep, and so do I!”

“Good night, Milan,” I shook my head, nuzzling deeper into my pillows. If I cleared my mind, I could still feel the faint ghost of Sander’s fingers on my scalp.

“Good night, love. Feel better.”

And with a quick good-night-kiss blown my way, he was gone. And I was alone with my thoughts. And, very quickly, my dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was such a gap for this one! I had to rewrite it a couple of times. At first it was too sweet, and Robbe was too forgiving. And then it was too mean, and Robbe and Sander got in a fight. And then I just didn't know where to go.
> 
> But I'm happy with this path I ended up taking. I hate writing fights, but I think this was them being appropriately reserved. And I very much didn't want them to talk about being in a relationship: I think even Sander knows this trip is not the time.
> 
> He really did just want to see Robbe that badly.
> 
> Anyway, how do you think the boys handled this? Do you thin it should have been different for them? Should Robbe have exploded at Sander?
> 
> No promises on how quickly the next chapter will come out. Life is crazy, yo.


	13. May Flowers: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe and Sander have a day to themselves, and it's Robbe's turn to be the guide.

**Sander:** _Morning_

 **Sander:** _How ya feeling sunshine?_

I awoke to the messages sitting on my phone, already a few hours old as I sleepily struggled to evaluate how to answer that question. Less achy, definitely, and the urge to cough was less insistent. My nose and sinuses were cleared enough that I could smell that giant-ass bouquet from my bed. But I wasn't perfectly better. Well enough to leave the apartment but sick enough to still justify not going into the office.

The perfect sick day.

But—ugh—my entire mouth felt like it was covered in some thick fuzz... grossness. Coating my tongue and teeth and—dammit, I hate it when I fall asleep without brushing my teeth.

 **Robbe:** _Better. No need for a hitman anymore_

I glanced at the clock. Nearly 10 AM, and with how early Sander had tried to check in on me—somehow he's both a night owl _and_ and an early riser, I don't know when the fuck he sleeps—I couldn't help but wonder what he'd been up to.

The was a chance, I knew, that he was already on the early train back south. We hadn't talked about that. And I wasn't sure how I felt about the possibility.

 **Sander:** _Not surprised. My soups been known to have healing properties_

 **Sander:** _Youre welcome by the way_

I rolled my eyes as I brushed my teeth, paying special attention to my tongue and erasing the coating of sickness and morning breath before preparing myself to greet the rest of the day. Whatever the hell that was going to entail. The apartment was quiet, which I guess was to be expected. Milan would have gone to work, and as far as I knew, all our neighbors also had 9-to-5's. I strained my ears and was just able to hear the sound of traffic a few floors below. It was... peaceful.

Actually... _I_ felt peaceful. Which, if you haven't gathered it from my normal internal monologue, is _not_ the normal state of things.

I don't know if it was the fact that I had the day to myself, or that I had no responsibilities pending, or just the slight euphoria of feeling better. Or maybe it was just Sander's texts, and how the previous night had ended, and...

Yeah.

 **Robbe:** _I'll make sure to let my company know they can stop researching all those new drugs. They just need to mass produce your soup to cure the world._

 **Sander:** _The recipe could be theirs for two billion euros_

 **Robbe:** _Honestly a steal_

I floated into our kitchen, lazily examining our cabinets and fridge as I began to recognize that aching emptiness in my stomach as hunger. The soup may have been delicious but it was also literally the only thing I'd been able to eat the previous day. And on the one hand, I was starving; but on the other hand, even that didn't feel too pressing.

Shit, maybe I should take sick days more often.

 **Sander:** _So what are you up to?_

 **Sander:** _Youre not working today, right?_

 **Robbe:** _Hell no. Wandering around my kitchen trying to decide what to have for breakfast_

I turned away from the cabinet filled with Milan's granola and healthy, whole-grain, sugar-free cereals—what's even the fucking point of that?—and eyed the fridge again. I knew we had some eggs and cheese. I could probably steal some without my roommate noticing, and the image of a big, fluffy cheese omelet suddenly filled my imagination. Like the kind my mom would make before I had a big test when I was a kid.

Though, I really didn't want to have to cook anything...

 **Sander:** _I was just about to stop at a bakery. I'm craving croissants_

 **Sander:** _I could bring some over. And coffee_

 **Sander:** _If youre not sick of me_

I felt my chest warm and my stomach growl, and smiled at my phone. For once, I admitted to myself that I felt... happy. Happy to know he hadn't disappeared back south without even a goodbye. Happy that he was still there. With me, sort of, if I wanted him. And I _did_ want him. And—an even more pleasant thought—he was almost, kind of asking for permission.

I mean, look at that! He was learning!

 **Robbe:** _What'll it cost me?_

I glanced around the room as I waited for a response. After the conflicted feelings of last night—now that my head and sinuses were clearer and the world wasn't annoying just through the virtue of existence—I just wanted to focus on how sweet he was being. How comforting the idea of him grabbing us breakfast could—and should be. Though it probably meant I needed to put on pants. Shit—and also take a shower. 

There was a part of me, though, that didn't want to shut up. That was strenuously pointing out that the flowers, the soup, the cuddling and now breakfast—all done so casually...

But, for once, I was able to just... ignore it. Like, thanks for everything, brain, but I'm not an idiot. You don't have to keep pointing out that it all felt very... boyfriend-ly. I'm aware.

It felt good. Okay? Sue me.

 **Sander:** _Probably about five euro_

 **Sander:** _And a guided tour around Antwerp. If youre feeling up to it_

I caught myself chewing on my lip as my thumbs hovered over the keyboard. But you know what?

That seemed like a fair trade.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Holy shit. You weren't kidding!" Sander's hand slipped out of mine as he jogged a few steps ahead through the crowd of teenagers vying to grab lunch from a falafel truck.

We had only just finished our breakfast of pastry and coffee, but it was lunchtime for the rest of the world, and the students spilling out the gate of my old high school looked eager to be out of those walls. Even if it was just for enough time to grab some food and get back.

Which, by the way, is bullshit. We never had food trucks stop outside while I was a student there.

"I know, right? Almost identical"

"They must have had the same architect, or something," he mused as I caught back up, taking his hand and dragging him along so that no one would wonder why a couple of guys in their twenties were staring at a bunch of high school students. "Freaky."

"What's freaky is that it hasn't changed a bit since I graduated. Fuck," I shook my head as we reached the corner of the street. "I would have thought they'd have updated _something_ , but no. Completely unchanged."

"Getting a sense of _deja vu_?" He grinned as he leaned into me, taking one more glance over his shoulder.

"Yes. And I hate it." Gently, but insistently, I tugged him around the corner and out of sight of the entry gate. Immediately I began to feel less weird. "It feels like I should be going back in there and getting ready to take my exams."

Man. High school is fucked—you know? And it fucking sticks with you. Which is why—for the most part—I haven't even been on that street since I graduated.

"Whatever, I bet you aced every exam you ever took."

"Pfft. I wish..."

Okay, well—depending on the subject—I did _okay_. Or better than okay. But you are not going to catch me bragging about how well I did in high school. Jesus. How lame could you be?

"Yeah. Sure. Meanwhile, I was down South struggling to pass Algebra just to graduate." Sander shoved me and I immediately shoved him back even harder, trying not to smile at the compliment hidden in his sarcasm. 

Is it conceited that I like that he thinks I'm smart?

I laughed as Sander stumbled overdramatically into the wall—I didn't push him _that_ hard—and then immediately repositioned himself behind me, hand slipping back into mine. And—look. I know that I should have been thinking about the fact that this was clearly another date and Sander was clearly acting boyfriend-ly. But... so what! Y'know? It's not a bad thing to just enjoy how good it felt. How much fun it was to walk past the university, and the high school, and soon the skatepark where I spent so much of my time and just sorta... show off my life. To someone who made me feel like they wanted to see it.

And based on how much Sander was smiling and joking around, you'd be forgiven for thinking my life had been much more interesting than it really was.

"So this is where baby Robbe came every day?" 

"Mhmm," I nodded. "That window up there is the Bio lab where I had my first ever panic attack,"—I pointed at a window on the second floor, and then to a separate building in the corner ahead of us—"and that's the gym where I had my very first _'oh shit, that guy's hot'_ moment. Just a... whole barrel of fun memories within those walls."

"I thought you didn't realize you were gay until college?" Sander asked, and I felt his fingers dance a little between mine. The day was a little warm, and—between that and the remnants of my fever—I wasn't sure if he was fidgeting or if it was because my hands were getting a little sweaty. Still, he didn't try to pull away, and neither did I.

"I didn't _admit it_ to myself until I was in college," I chuckled. "Very different things. I mean, if I wasn't—as Noor likes to say—'such a goddamn idiot,' I probably could've realized that I'd been in love with my best friend since I was thirteen way before that."

"And that was... Jens?"

"Yeah," I nodded, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. And very... visible. We'd had the classic 'when did you know' conversation that pretty much every gay-first-date has. But suddenly I felt incredibly glad that he'd yet to actually meet my friends. Jens, especially.

"Do you think he knew?"

"Knew what? That I had a crush on him?" Sander nodded as we continued to, thankfully, walk away from the memories of my old high school. "God, I hope not. I was... sorta shitty about it. Sometimes."

For a moment, Sander looked like he was about to inquire into what I meant by that, but luckily he opted to shrug instead before moving on. Maybe he could sense the repressed shame.

"I came out in my second year, and one of my friends, he immediately assumed I was into him. Like, the first thing he asked when he found out."

“Well... were you?”

Sander stayed quiet for a moment as we continued to meander past a group of teen girls vaping what was almost definitely weed in a small huddle. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him drop his shoulders.

"Yeah..." he admitted, disappointed but—I noticed—still smiling. "I mean. The guy played water polo! He was..." I laughed as he tried to somehow mimic what I assume—based on my own browsing history—was the body of someone who was both lean and incredibly ripped. It involved a lot of flexing, dropping my hand to do a Superman pose. "I'm only human."

"Uhuh."

"No, but he was a complete ass, though. It was purely the body that I was interested in." He shrugged, running up ahead a few feet as if he thought he was going to be leading the way on this guided tour. "Plus, according to Insta now he's like... has a beer gut and thinning hair and just obsesses about football all the time."

He grimaced dramatically and... maybe I saw an opportunity.

"Ah." I made a show of pursing my lips, walking slower as we crossed a street so that Sander had to glance back at me. "So what I'm hearing is I'm a few pounds and a bad hair day away from you, uh... losing interest?"

"Um," he kept walking, not giving me even a hint of the flinch I was hoping for, "that is not what I said." And then after a second's pause, he turned around with a smirk. "I said you're a few pounds, a bad hair day, and a _football obsession_ away from me losing interest. I cannot overstate how important the sports part of that is."

"Oh my God—you shallow motherfucker!" I reached forward to slap at his shoulder but he just laughed and danced away before I could connect.

"What? Am I not supposed to admit how incredibly attracted I am to your body?" With the biggest shit-eating grin, he changed course, trying to swoop in closer. But I pushed him away with laughter. And also my hands. "And your face? I could write some poems if that's what you want. You're already inspiring."

"Oh God," I rolled my eyes and pushed him away before he was able to lean in and kiss my neck. Because—one: we were in public; and two: he did not deserve any kind of reward for that sappy-ass line. "You ass. So that's all I am to you, huh? A face and a body?"

I said it jokingly, but there was definitely a part of me that wasn't joking. 

For just a moment, that part of me that knew that attractions... changed. Faded. Knew it from experience. That part reared its ugly head. So I forced it back down with a smile.

Today was going to be a _good_ day. Whether it wanted to be or not.

As we pushed forward, Sander sort of... dancing around me, I swear I saw at least one woman glance at us with scandalous interest in her eyes. Or maybe it was jealousy. Honestly, either could fit.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," I let him link his arm with mine again as we resumed our walk to the skatepark, "that pretty face of yours is what first caught my attention—you know, I was only in that bar to duck out of the snow for a minute and then—there, in the dark back corner, out of the corner of my eye, I see this angel, and—"

"Shut up," I did my best to keep the affection, the warmth drawn from the memory of that cold January night, from slipping into my voice. But based on the smile Sander wore when he glanced at me, I'm guessing he could hear it anyway. "Ass."

"But that's not why I sat there and talked to you until you were too drunk to walk yourself home—"

"Fuck you, I was not that drunk!" I interjected.

"You were so fucking plastered!" he laughed. "I assumed you blacked out and forgot all about me when you didn't text me for a goddamn _month_. Which you still haven't apologized for, by the way. Very rude."

Oh man... I had almost forgotten about that. Back when I wasn't entirely sure I even remembered what Sander looked like—back before that annoying, goofy, beautiful smirk had been branded onto my brain against my will. It felt like so long ago...

"You didn't text me either," I countered, dropping my hand to slip back into his.

"We're not talking about me right now," he smirked, squeezing my hand as I pulled him down a side street and toward the water. "We're talking about—"

"Me being embarrassingly drunk the first time we met. I know."

Fuck. Remember how badly I wanted to throw myself at him—oh God, how badly I _did_ throw myself at him? Am I always so fucking awkward?

"You being embarrassingly drunk the first time we met and me _still_ wanting to talk to you all night, anyway."

And then Sander was pulling me—out of the flow of pedestrians and into the narrow alley between two old brick buildings, into just enough isolation that I didn't resist when he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me in close. I just smiled. Because it felt good. And the way he was looking at me, soft smile on his lips, his eyes challenging but... gentle.

It felt nice. Good.

It felt like a fucking fairy tale.

God, is this what it's like to not overthink things? It's fucking nice. Holy shit.

"No one's so pretty that I'd put myself through that if you weren't at least fun to talk to. Not even you."

"So what I'm hearing is... I am more than just a pretty face?"

And honestly, I was expecting him to just kiss me quiet. The idea of it felt appropriately whimsical and fantastical. And he did eventually—germs be damned. But not before looking at me with this open smile, like it was the most obvious answer in the world, and whispering in my ear.

"So much more."

 _Then_ he kissed me into silence. And I let myself sink into it, sink into the fantasy. Let myself ignore that we were in a dirty side alley, and ignore that Sander would be leaving that afternoon, and ignore that we still lived on opposite sides of the country. Just for the moment.

Just for the moment, I let myself sit in the feeling that this could all be... right.

And it felt fucking amazing.

+++++++++++++++++++++

"So what's the worst you ever wiped out?"

Sander reached over, snatching a still-steaming fry from my tray as we watched a small group of college-aged skaters varyingly fail and succeed at pulling off tricks through the shop window. It hadn't been part of my plan, but the smell of fried food had been too delicious to ignore as we approached the skate park, and I was honestly still pretty hungry. So Sander bought me some fries and I got us some seats with a view of the park, and we settled into the busy little lunch shop for a bit for a snack/lunch/second breakfast.

"Ah... I mean, I gave myself road rash along, like, my entire thigh once," I rubbed the side of my thigh that had been bandaged for almost a month as a result of my friend-fuelled stupidity.

"Oof."

"Yeah, I don't even remember what I was doing to get that much speed," I lied, not wanting to explain why my friends and I had decided to try being pulled behind a car on our boards, "But it was... painful. To say the least. And, like... a surprising amount of blood."

"Shit, really? I don't remember seeing a scar," he swiveled his chair away from the window, taking a moment to run his fingers gently over my thigh. I shivered. "How old were you?"

"Freshman in college?" I smiled as his hand came to rest on the inside of my knee and he turned back toward the window. "I guess I got lucky. If you look closely, there's a few places where you can tell. And I don't have as much leg hair there. But nothing super noticeable. Not as bad as it probably should have been."

"I'll have to remember to check it out," Sander hummed, voice suddenly dropping until I could just barely hear him. "Next time we..."

"Sander!" I jerked my leg away as his hand began to dance up the inside of my thigh. 

"Right! Sorry. No—I, uh..." Like he'd been burned, he snatched his hand back into his own lap and I watched as his face shifted into an embarrassed, blushing, unsure smile. "Sorry. Got carried away with, uh... yeah."

I shook my head and reached over to grab his hand so he knew I wasn't, like, mad, and then I turned back to stare at the skate park.

"Just, we're in a crowded shop. Y'know?" I waited until I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye. "Not in public."

And then he apologized again, and neither of us said anything about the fact that that was the closest we had gotten to talking about sex, or doing anything sexual since the night he asked me to be his boyfriend. 

Because that was a discussion for... not right that moment.

"Um... so do you, uh, still skate at all?"

I squeezed his hand one more time before dropping it so I could return to eating my fries. Out the window, a guy who looked remarkably like Moyo did a short nosegrind off one of the benches.

"Nah," I sighed. "I stopped in college. I haven't been on a board in forever."

"Really? Why?"

"Yeah," I shrugged, grabbing another fry, "Y'know, once university started getting busy, and then life—" _and then boyfriends who thought it was childish,_ "—and then work. Just sorta... stopped having time to come by here. I mean, I didn't get rid of my board or anything. And I could still probably do some tricks. Like, if my life depended on it. But I'd probably also fall on my face a lot—"

"Well, at least if you got hurt, I'm sure the doctors still remember you from your numerous other emergency room visits."

"Very funny," I glared out of the corner in my eye, but Sander just smirked in response. I slapped his hand away as he tried to grab another fry.

"But that is sort of sad, though. It seems like you really liked doing it."

"Yeah, but..." I hummed, breaking a particularly thick fry in half and watching the steam filter out into the air, "I mean, that's just part of life, right?"

"A shitty part of life."

"What, are you telling me you still have all the same hobbies you had when you were fifteen?"

I watched as, all the way on the other side of the park, near the water's edge, one person approached another with a bundle of flowers. How sweet.

"I guess not, no," Sander answered eventually. "I haven't tagged anything since that night I got arrested."

I turned away from the window, something about the suddenly-distant quality of his voice catching my attention. "Really?"

"Mhmm," he shrugged.

"Why?" I found myself echoing the other half of the earlier part of our conversation, but... in truth, Sander didn't seem like the kind of guy to stop doing an illegal thing just because he got caught once. Not that I think he's a criminal or anything. He just... you get what I'm saying.

A moment of silence passed and I saw Sander begin to pick at his nails, hands fidgeting against each other on the little counter we were sitting at. Behind us, a waitress passed by with a plate piled high with a massive, fruit-filled salad and an equally massive, meat-filled burger.

"Well, after I got arrested, my dad offered me the start-up money for Local Odyssey if I promised to stop 'embarrassing the family,'" finally he turned to meet my eyes, and I realized he looked... more than a little ashamed, hidden behind an empty scoff. "I mean, I may be a fuck-up, but I usually do try to keep my promises. Especially when there's a contract legally requiring me to pay back his investment if I'm ever caught breaking my word."

And that...

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah," Sander sighed. "I know. It's lame—relying on Daddy's money—but Zoë and I were having trouble finding initial donors, and she really deserved a paycheck for all the work she'd done, and—

"No, I mean," I paused, shaking my head as I tried to figure out my words. "That was... really shitty of him. To make you agree to that."

To make him give up something he obviously loved doing. To...

We didn't talk about our families much, the two of us. For me, I wanted to avoid the chance that the conversation might land on my Dad—and, let's be honest, my history with both parents and also a lot of my extended family has been... complicated. To say the least. I had sort of come to assume that Sander just didn't like talking about his family's wealth. I hadn't thought about the possibility that maybe his Dad was, well...

A complete and utter douchebag.

Maybe we had even more in common than I knew.

"I'm sorry. That... that really sucks."

"Yeah, well," Sander smiled at me, ruefully. And, I think, a little bit sad. "That's life. Especially with a family like mine."

"Well, it's a shitty party of life," I echoed, and Sander's smile grew a little bit wider. "Do you miss it?"

I watched as he nodded, then, after a moment, locked his eyes with mine and shifted a bit closer into that devilish smirk I like so much. "Can you keep a secret?"

I nodded, a bit confused.

"Don't tell Zoë, but I've anonymously submitted proposals for the last three public mural projects we've managed," he whispered, grinning conspiratorially like this was some top-level secret. "She'll figure it out if I get chosen, but by then it'll be too late. I mean, it's not the same as tagging. Having permission to do a specific mural is _not_ the same as graffiti-ing a wall. But hopefully it'll at least feel like... I dunno. An adult version of it?

"Well, _when_ you get selected," I grinned, reaching over to shove gently at his shoulder, "I expect a personalized, private viewing. Before the rest of the public." 

"Really?" he asked like he was asking something else instead.

"Yeah. Of course."

He smiled, grabbing another fry to enjoy as his eyes stared into mine. "Then you'll be the first to see it. Once it's finished."

"Oh god, are you one of those artists that won't let anyone see things 'til they're 'perfect'?" I shook my head. Noor is like that. "That's so _obnoxious_!"

As Sander sputtered and began to defend himself, I let my attention fall back to the skatepark. The guy who looked surprisingly similar to Moyo had stopped to chat with a few younger looking girls. The guy who'd received the flowers—who looked surprisingly similar to myself, but with black hair—was making his way across the street toward the lunch shop. Flowers clasped in one hand, and his companion—who looked surprisingly similar to...

Shit.

"... so really, it's only fair that I get a chance to—"

"Hey, um, I'm ready to head out. You ready?"

A confused silence passed as I did my best to tear my eyes away from the last person I wanted to see, someone who looked way too much like my asshole ex-boyfriend to be anyone else. But when I finally did, I was met with a confused stare as Sander glanced toward our still half-full tray of food.

"You don't want to finish your fries?" He asked as the jingle of the door opening rang through the restaurant.

And I know that in reality, the restaurant didn't go silent. But it felt like it did. It felt like the only thing I could hear was the sudden addition of the horribly familiar voice. Well. That, and my suddenly racing heartbeat.

Fuck. Shit!

"Ah... I'm sorta full," I said, keeping my voice low as I pushed the food away and began to stand. "I mean—I'm actually starting to feel sort of, uh, crappy. Again. I..."

And then I heard that voice even closer. Just a few feet away, just behind me, just saying, "This table looks free," and I could _feel_ the food in my stomach souring at how close he was and—

"Hey, are you feeling okay?" Suddenly there was a hand on my forehead and Sander's concerned face made sense of itself in front of my eyes. "Robbe? You don't—"

And then, I swear to you, the restaurant did go silent. Or, at the very least, David's voice did.

"I'm gonna go."

And before I could figure out which voice said my name next, I was gone. Outside. Outside, and halfway down the street, and trying to figure out how to get my heart to slow down, and trying to figure out the odds that I'd successfully avoided David Pauwels for almost a year now I'd seen him twice in the span of two months and now he had likely seen _me_. And, see, this is what happens when I stop thinking things through and this is what happens when I'm having a good day—it always comes crashing fucking down and—

"Robbe. Robbe!" A hand—warm, tan, calloused—was on my wrist. Not trying to stop me. Keeping up with me as I walked mindlessly away from that restaurant. There. With me.

Not David. Sander.

And suddenly my heart dropped, and the world came back into focus around me, I felt so incredibly fucking stupid.

"Robbe, are you okay? Is something wrong? Did something—"

"Yeah," I shook my head. God, how was this somehow _worse_ than the last time I'd seen him? "Yeah, I'm fine. I just..."

I didn't really want to meet Sander's eyes.

Too embarrassed.

He's just a fucking _person_ , Robbe. You don't have to be such a fucking drama queen.

"You're..." Sander's voice came out worried, and slow, and confused. "Did something happen back there? I'm sorry if I..."

And, for a moment, as we stood there on the corner and some kids with skateboards made their way around us, I felt my heart squeeze. Painfully squeeze. As I realized that Sander truly had no idea what was going on. Because... how could he? I'd never even mentioned David to him. And I felt my stomach twist because, for a second, I knew I could keep it like that. And that I probably _should_. It was embarrassing. It was. Horrifically embarrassing that I'd just reacted like that. Lying about what was wrong would...

It would save face.

It would save _that_ conversation.

But Sander was looking at me. Confused. Worried. Maybe even a little scared. And I could feel it, that souring in my gut as I heard him prepare to apologize for something that he had no idea was absolutely not his fault. And...

I couldn't do it. Or, I guess... I had to do it.

"It not that," I interrupted, trying to harden my stare so that I could stop looking so damn pathetic. All because I barely ran into a... "It's not... I just saw someone—I just... fuck."

I caught Sander's eyes and... okay. That helped. Some. I felt a little bit better.

Fuck.

"That, ah... that was my ex. Who just sat down behind us," I offered it like an excuse, feeling simultaneous better and also incredibly lame that I even had to say it. "I'd just, y'know, rather not be in the same place as him. Anywhere near him, really." And then, before he could reply, I slipped in a quick, "Sorry."

And I was. Sorry. That this is who he had to deal with. I was probably a lot more fun to deal with when I was care-free-Robbe. Not this stupid, anxious, fucked-up...

"Your ex?" It came out muttered, and then more clearly, "The, uh... the guy in the muscle shirt?"

And I just nodded. Because... fuck it. At this point, Sander deserved to know how fucked up I was. And—

"Oh. Well... fuck that guy. Want me to go beat him up?"

And it's not the first time I'd heard that. Jens had offered at least twice. Noor once. Milan, even, had threatened to take action the very day he picked me up after the break-up. But they were my friends. They, to some extent, knew the history behind it all. And that meant I had to respond seriously just in case they were being serious themselves.

But hearing those words from Sander. Who had zero context? Zero history? Zero reason to even think I needed to be defended?

I couldn't stop myself laughing.

"You know what?" I was barely able to choke out the words, Sander's earnest smile sending me into another burst of laughter every time I locked eyes with him. Fuck. _Fuck_ , how does he fucking do this. "Yeah. Thanks. I'd really appreciate that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY! Sorry for the month long wait since the last update. I don't know why I had so much trouble writing this. Partly it was because I've been playing a lot of Celeste, but also this chapter was just... hard to write. The second scene got rewritten like three times. I wasn't sure where I wanted the final scene to go until _today_. Anyway, I hope not too much of the rough writing process made itself obvious in the final product. And I hope this was worth the wait!
> 
> This chapter is a BIG step for Robbe! But, also, for Sander too!


	14. May Flowers: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sander goes home which means it's time for Robbe to have some conversations! And visit friends! And, really, maybe, by chance, figure some stuff out.

I could feel Milan staring at me from the moment I entered the apartment. He was trying to pretend he wasn't—every time I glanced his way, he shifted his eyes to his phone, or our TV, or just a random corner of the ceiling—but he was definitely staring. And definitely waiting. 

Until, eventually, it seemed he just couldn't wait any longer.

"So," he announced as I exited the kitchen with a glass of water, "that was Sander?"

"Yup."

I nodded quickly before continuing my trek back to my room. I knew Milan well enough to know there was no real way to get out of this, but that didn't mean I had to suddenly be eager.

"And here I thought I was up to date on all your... boy-related activities," Milan lamented, sounding like someone who was too proud to admit he was hurt. "Appears someone's been keeping secrets."

I came to a stop right in front of my door. I could see my bed. And after a day of being out, not yet fully recovered from this damn cold, that comfortable cocoon of blankets and pillows was calling for me. But...

"Nope," I sighed, leaning my head against the doorframe. "No secrets."

After almost a year of living with him, I knew that, sometimes, giving Milan 'the tea'—as he called it and I absolutely did not—was an integral part of having a calm and peaceful home.

"Well. I'll just say," he held his hands up in faux-innocence as if there was any chance that what he was about to say would be his last word on the subject, "that picture you showed me did _not_ do him justice. I mean—"

"Jesus..."

"—god _damn_! Here I thought I'd gotten over my soulful bad-boy stage; then your boy toy comes around, showing me that vein has _not_ been mined out, and I am just..."

"Seriously?" I sighed and laughed at the same time as Milan pretended to fan away a hot-flash. "Can you not?"

I mean, yes, I'll admit, part of me flared up with a sudden possessive urge. But also, if I'm being real... I couldn't really blame him, could I?

"What? You have an exclusive claim on him or something?"

I just shook my head, unable to wipe that small smile off my face as I padded my way into the living room. 

The truth was, Milan and I had very different tastes in guys. Or, I guess, I had a very different taste in guys than Milan did. He was a lot more willing to give a chance to guys I wouldn't even consider—and the reverse was rarely true. Especially when it came to more effeminate guys. 

Shit. Does that make him a better person than me?

"Ah... maybe," I grinned as I settled onto the back of the couch. "More of a claim than you have."

"Oh?" Milan quickly changed tone, replacing the whatever-the-hell overexaggerated look he'd been trying to make with his face with a coy, curious smile. "Well, now I definitely need an update. Come. Sit."

He patted beside him and I slowly, gracelessly, slid off the back of the couch and onto the cushion. 

"I'll get us some wine."

"Ah, none for me. Thanks." I shook my head and struggled to right myself onto the cushions. "My head's still feeling a bit fucked up."

"Fine. Wine for me, then," Milan shrugged, pushing himself up just as I finally got my ass on the couch and feet on the ground like a normal person. "Want something harder? I think I still have some whiskey. Clear those sinuses right up!"

"Ah, no," I chuckled. But then, on second thought... "Actually..."

Milan stuck his head around the kitchen doorway with an almost-disturbing smile.

"Coming right up!"

Talking about myself is much more manageable when inebriated.

A few minutes later, with an overfull glass of ice and cheap whiskey collecting condensation in my hand, Milan finally settled himself back onto our couch. That cat-like, curious smile hadn't left his face the entire time he was up, and as he clutched his mug of wine to his chest—clearly waiting for me to begin—I couldn't help but feel a sense of... nostalgia.

"Do you remember back in college, that time I showed up at your door at 3 in the morning?"

"Mhmm. You mean the first time or the second time?" he asked, a little smugness finding itself into his smile.

"What? No, I only did that once."

"Right, of course," Milan said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I must have confused you with the other freshman who kept waking me up to solve his little gay emergencies. My mistake."

"Uhuh," I rolled my eyes, feeling a little bit of embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck. But honestly, that's to be expected, right? Who isn't embarrassed when they're forced to remember how dumb they were when they were younger?

"Weird, I can't remember his name, though."

"Mhmm."

"Was he the one who needed the gay 'birds and the bees' talk at nineteen? Or was that—"

"Anyway!" I powered through Milan's grin, as well as his _gross_ over-simplification of what I'd needed his help with that night, all those years ago. "I was _going_ to say something nice, but fuck that."

"Oh, Robbe," with a soft sigh he settled back against the arm of the couch. "Don't get your panties in a knot, dear—you know I wouldn't trade being your guru for the world."

"Right... What about the time you kicked me out of your room because you had a hookup coming over?"

"That was to teach you a very important lesson about privacy. And! Also, a _very_ important introduction to the idea of Grindr hookups."

"Of course," I nodded, holding my stare as judgmentally as possible while I took a too-large sip of my drink.

Okay fine. You can stop judging me. If I'm being honest, I don't even know how much of a mess I would have been those first few years of college if Milan hadn't been willing to put up with my... questions. Stupid things, like what I should expect for a first date—like, who pays? Who makes the plans?—taking me to my first gay bar, and clarifying more than a few unfamiliar terms. Plus, more important, more private things like... well, like everything about sex that I couldn't learn from porn. Not that I was completely clueless, y'know? Just the stuff no one ever really talks about. Because I sure as hell wasn't going to trust the internet. 

I could never thank him enough for not making me feel like too much of an idiot.

But that didn't mean I had to be nice to him for the rest of my life.

"Alright, alright. Enough stalling," Milan interjected, waving away the memories of a younger, even dumber me. "I need details about the guy making house calls to bring you flowers and soup. 

"Yeah..." I sighed, still letting myself adjust to the shock, the warmth that I'd experienced when Sander had shown up unannounced. "I mean... what's there to say? He brought flowers and soup. It was sweet."

"I mean, first of all, when the hell did _that_ become a thing?" Milan asked before taking a deep swig of his wine. "Because last I heard you two were, I don't know, just hookups, right?"

"Right, well..."

"Yeah, well, believe me. I've had plenty of hookups in my time and they've sure as hell never showed up at my door with soup and flowers when I was sick."

"So that..." I paused to take another probably-bigger-than-necessary swig of liquor, wincing as it burned its way past my heart. "That may be related to the fact that he asked me to be his boyfriend."

You know, I feel like it shouldn't feel this... _heavy_ to mention that someone asked me to be their boyfriend. Whether it was Sander or... any guy, really. Like, even if I wasn't interested, I feel like it should just be... I don't know. Fun. Bragging. Celebratory.

Why isn't it like that for me? Am I, like...

Am I fucked up?

"Okay, so... I want to say congratulations, but I'm not... not getting that vibe here, tonight."

Oh, thank God Milan is perceptive.

"I haven't given him an answer yet. I mean. I _think_ I know... I just." I kept my eyes on the slowly spinning cube of ice that was gradually diluting my drink. Making it sweeter. Making it burn a little less. It was one of those giant cubes half the size of the glass—I'd bought Milan the special tray for his birthday when he'd wanted to get more into 'mixology.' "Shit. He makes me really happy. At least, I think he does."

"Okay," his words came out slow and careful, almost like he was approaching an injured puppy. Which made me feel... just a bit pathetic if I'm being honest. "Well, that's good. Right?"

And I nodded, because it was good. Even earlier that afternoon, when I'd seen Sander off at the train station, when I had just been... stubbornly refusing to let go of his jacket sleeve. Because... I didn't want him to go, alright? I wanted a few more hours to be in the universe where he lived in Antwerp with me and it was all so much simpler. Even then, even when I wasn't exactly happy... I sort of was. And then he leaned forward, and kissed me under the ear, and made me promise that next month we'd do another tour of his city.

And it was good.

But...

"I just... I know it's stupid, but I just can't stop thinking about David. I..." The ice cube shifted suddenly and I realized I'd been staring at it for way too long to be normal. Probably why my roommate sounded a bit like that therapist I'd gone to for one session as a teenager.

"Robbe," I felt the hand on my knee before I finally looked up, offering an apologetic smile. I mean, I knew it was stupid. But still. "Honey, just because you're interested in another guy doesn't mean he's going to be like your ex."

The thing is...

"But that's just it," I said, finishing my glass in one final, fiery gulp. "In a lot of ways, he _is_."

And... that's the truth of it. Isn't it?

"What do you mean?"

"Sander is..." I paused, taking a moment to look at Milan and realize exactly what I was going to say. "He's charismatic. I can feel my opinions changing when I'm around him. Just like with David. And he pushes boundaries—my boundaries—just like with David. It's like he has this effect on me. So far it hasn't been bad or anything—and I want to trust him. Sander. But he lives on the other side of the country. And I've already proved to myself that... I don't know. That if a guy is hot enough, he could drag me along, and cheat on me, and lie to my ass for _months_ and I'd be none the wiser. Too fucking dumb to see what's in front of me until he fucking... slaps me in the face with the truth."

"Hey—!"

"And so even if I _could_ trust him, even if he didn't live a hundred kilometers away and I could see him every day... Knowing _that_ about myself, how the fuck am I supposed to trust that it won't all just... blow up? Again?"

Right? 

Because even if Sander was _perfect_ —and I know that he's not, and that's not a knock against him at all—that wouldn't change the fact that I'm just a... colossal fuck-up. Y'know?

And _that's_ the truth of it.

"And I have no... Do _you_ think I'm ready for..."

In the silence that followed, it almost felt... good. To get that feeling that had been sitting heavy on my chest into words, into the air. To finally speak the truth at the center of it all. Because it's never really been about Sander, or David, or anyone else, really. It's always just been—

"Do you remember what I told you, after you slept with David and you didn't know what to do about him?"

"I, uh..." I felt a squeeze on my knee and realized Milan had never taken his hand away. "No. Not really."

"Well, I do," After a pause, and another sip of wine, he let out a sigh. A disappointed sigh. Maybe... regretful? "You told me that he was being more... aggressive than you expected. Trying to get you to go out with him. And in my infinite wisdom, I told you to... give him a shot. I said the worst thing that could happen was that you'd get your heart broken, but that that was just a part of growing up."

"Oh..." And suddenly, I could remember. Sitting in Milan's brand new apartment—the one before he moved into what was now _our_ apartment—getting weird looks from his then-roommate as Milan made me breakfast and I asked how to handle this guy I'd slept with who kept asking for another night together. And I remembered leaving that apartment with an immense amount of unearned confidence that everything would work out if I just gave that guy a chance. "I, um..."

"I thought it would be good for you. To date someone. And I thought David couldn't be any worse than all the other overeager fuck-boys you might meet in college. But if I'd had _any_ idea that he would be making you question yourself, this long after the fact... Robbe, _you_ are not the reason that he was able to hurt you like that. Please tell me you know that."

The hand on my knee disappeared, replaced a moment later by a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight enough to be more insistent than reassuring. 

"Milan..." I tried to shrug off the hand, but apparently he wasn't interested in letting me do that. "Look, I—I understand what happened with David. Okay? You don't have to try to make me feel better."

"Make you..." Milan let out a light, friendly scoff, shaking his head. The sudden brightness of it surprised me. "Honey, if I was trying to make you feel better, I would be pointing out that Sander is a trade-up from _anything_ you could have dated before. Especially David. No—Love, I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you to trust yourself again."

I shook my head. I felt confused, and when I finally looked up into my roommate's eyes, I wasn't able to find anything that fixed that.

I remember, when I was first starting to accept that I was gay—before Sander, before David, before any other guys—Milan corrected my assumption about what it meant to be proud to be gay. And back then, he'd been angry at me. Because I'd been a dumbass college freshmen who thought he was _different_ , and I'd said some things I'm not proud of. Back then, he'd had that same look in his eyes that he did sitting on that couch with me. Dark, and solid, and silently pleading.

Trying to get me to understand something. 

I'd been confused then, and I'm ashamed to admit, I was just as confused, all these years later.

"Trust my... what?"

"Robbe, you trust me, right?" He paused until I nodded, still fixing me with that stare. I did. Hard not to at this point. "Then trust me when I tell you that I _can't_ be the one to answer whether or not you should be with Sander. Don't get me wrong—I'm more than happy to talk things out if that's what you need. But no matter what I tell you, you're going to have to be the one to make that decision. And whatever you choose, the only way you're going to be happy with the result is if you trust in yourself—in the decision that you make."

"But how do I know for sure that I don't have it all wrong?"

"Look, if you decide you can't trust Sander—whether it's because of something he's done, or whether it's because you just don't think you're ready for that kind of relationship—that's fine. Okay? There's nothing wrong with staying single. But you have to make that decision based off what you know about Sander and yourself. Not what you're scared you might have missed. Not what someone else did to you in the past. Because you'll never be able to know everything about another person, and you're just going to drive yourself crazy. If that absolute confidence is what you're waiting for, you're gonna be waiting for the rest of your life. You can only go off of what you have available to you—and then you need to _trust_ that whatever decision you make is the best one for you at the time."

"But what if I want to trust him," I asked. And I know I sounded pathetic, but... fuck! As confused as I was, all I could think about was how amazing that would feel. To be able to just trust. And not have these stupid Goddamn thoughts plaguing my every interaction. "What if I want to say yes?"

"Then you've gotta look through your time together," Milan offered with a soft smile. A knowing smile. Like he could hear what was going through my head. "And use _that_ to decide if that's something you can do."

After a moment I nodded. More to break the stillness and the silence than anything else. Look back on our time together—simultaneously a few days and a few months depending on how you look at it. It was... a lot. A surprising amount of time and texts and conversations and touches. And, even if he hadn't said anything, I knew Sander would need an answer sooner rather than later. I'd already made him wait a full month. Much longer and it would just be... cruel.

I just had to hope he'd forgive me a little more time. Enough time.

"And Robbe? Not that it matters, but whatever you choose, you're always going to have my support."

"I, uh... yeah," I nodded again. I had a lot of thinking ahead of me. A lot of rethinking. A lot of changing the way I thought. God, I wish I could believe it was going to be easy, but... "Okay."

Well, I've never really been that good at knowing my own brain, have I?

"Now, how about I get us some more drinks? Hmm? You look like you could use it, and I know I could."

"Ah, yeah," I shook my head, feeling myself come back down to the world, our apartment, and the slightly lumpy couch. Drinking more probably wasn't the best idea—I was expected back in the office tomorrow—but my brain felt like it was overheating, and the idea of numbing it, just for a bit... well it sounded fucking amazing. It's just...

One more thing before I stop being able to think.

"Hey, Milan?" I waited a moment for that curly-haired head to stick out around the doorframe, looking at me with that high questioning tone from our kitchen.

"Yup?"

"I, uh..." and then I shook my head, and decided that I wasn't yet drunk enough for anything that sappy to come out of my mouth. So, instead, I laughed, and squeezed my own kneed, and waited on my roommate to give up on getting any kind of answer. And then, just as he was pulling his head back to his task in the kitchen—

"Thanks."

+++++++++++++++++++++

"So," I reached over the table, careful to avoid disturbing the large pile of papers as I speared the tomato off Yasmina's plate, "how'd the first year of TA-ing treat you?"

A moment of silence passed before I got my answer, a moment where my friend took a purposefully long time to pause, sigh, and glance up at me with an exhausted, almost distraught look in her eyes before setting her red pen onto the test she'd been grading.

It had been a while since I'd been able to meet up with Yasmina in person. Of all the friends I'd met in college and graduated with, she was by far the busiest. Though, I guess that's to be expected. She was, after all, the only one who'd immediately transitioned into a masters program after graduation.

In fact, she'd only been able to meet me for lunch on the condition that I went to her—and also on the condition that I didn't get fussy about her working through our time together.

"I refuse to believe we were this... let's say 'clueless' when we were undergrads," Yasmina glanced back down at the paper in front of her, at the sea of red ink that covered almost every part of the page. Somehow, aside from the exhaustion and look of death in her eyes, she looked astonishingly put-together. Really put my 'toss on a clean(?) shirt five seconds before heading out' look to shame. And, even though I couldn't actually see her hair, just sitting across from her made me feel like I was way past due to get a haircut. But she'd always had that effect on me. I had plenty of experience ignoring it. "It's at the point where I'm searching for excuses to give them literally any type of partial credit—Robbe, how does someone make it to the final exam of freshman chemistry and still not know how to do a simple MO diagram? I don't think this kid even knows what a pi-bond is..."

"Is it a gen-ed requirement?" I asked, placing the tomato on top of the measly one that already sat on my sandwich. This cafe by Yasmina's university wasn't bad, but they always skimped on the garnishes.

"Unfortunately." I watched with barely contained amusement as she, clearly frustrated, slammed the half-graded exam closed and finally turned to her lunch. "Ugh, seriously, no tomato? Why do I even come to this place anymore?"

"Just ask for some more," I shrugged. "And hey, at least the semester's over, right? Next few months you can just focus on research. No stupid freshmen to worry about."

"Oh yeah," Yasmina dead-panned. "Can't wait to get started on those 10-hour lab days my advisor's been promising."

"Oof! Ah... I mean, at least your lab's doing some cool stuff. Right?"

And finally, under the frustration, I saw just a hint of a smile peek through. 

"Honestly? I have some issues with Professor Cornet as an advisor... but yeah. The project she has me working on is super interesting. Like—and it's an amazing starting point to maybe build my thesis on. It's..."

"Really? What project?"

Yasmina and I got close when she, as she likes to say it, 'got stuck with me' as her sophomore lab partner. Which is fucking bullshit—I still maintain that I pulled much more than my own weight in that lab. Anyway, even if we eventually became more than just classmate-friends, and even if we no longer had classes to share and commiserate over—she was really my only friend in my major—science, labs, classes, etc were still strong fallback topics for when I did get to see her.

Anyway, sometimes our conversations get, as Jens likes to say... nerdy. So... apologies in advance.

"Working with some artificial neurotransmitters. In _C. elegans_ for now—and honestly she mostly has me working on the purification flow, so like, column-palooza, here I come—but I'm really interested to see what comes out of it."

"No way, really?" I asked, leaning a little big more across the table. "That sounds so interesting—what kind of neurotransmitter?"

"So, I'll be working on this norepinephrine derivative they published about last year—apparently someone else spent the last few months really dialing in the synthesis and the yield is finally a viable level—but I know the second-year grad student I've been working with is focusing on a GABA-derivative."

"Ah man... that sounds like such an awesome project. I'm jealous," I laughed, leaning back in my chair. "The labs I've been auditing are all just working on different improvements to boner pills." That was a slight exaggeration—only one of the labs I was working with was trying to develop a new boner pill. The other two were nominally working on bladder cancer (in the East) and hepatitis (in the South), but I have this sneaking suspicion that they were both also secretly working on boner pills, so... 

Giving old men erections is supposedly quite the lucrative market.

Sorry for that mental image, but I refuse to be the only one who has to think about it.

"Well, you know... assuming Mathis can get his act together and finish his thesis, our lab is probably going to be looking for a new candidate during the next admission cycle."

"Yeah?" I asked, taking another bite of my lunch. "And I'm sure your professor already has a list of applicants a mile long, am I right?"

I never got deep enough into academia to have a real idea of who the superstar professors around Antwerp were. But I do know that of the five papers our advanced biochem professor had us read, Cornet was the primary author on two of them. And back when I'd thought about moving onto grad school like Yasmina, hers was one of the labs I'd been interested in. 

Not that anything ever came of that.

"She does," she shrugged, a smug smile tugging at her lips. "But none of them would have a _personal_ recommendation from Cornet's very favorite advisee." To accentuate her point, Yasmina set down her sandwich so that she could rest her chin on her hands and smile like an innocent starlet. "If you were interested."

"Right," I couldn't help but roll my eyes. As if even that would give me a chance. 

"I'm serious." And then, when I didn't really respond after a few seconds, "Oh, c'mon Robbe, it's not like you're in love with what you're doing now. You might actually like being a student again."

"Careful, Yas," I ignored the weird feeling in my stomach opted to smirk—instead of glare like I usually did when someone mentioned that I didn't like my job. Cause it's usually none of their business. "You're starting to sound like you actually miss working with me."

"More like I miss having you to blame when things go wrong," She rolled her eyes before returning to focusing more on her sandwich than on me.

Finally.

There were plenty of reasons I'd decided not to go the grad-school route after graduation, even if it was what I'd originally planned for myself. Grades were part of it. The lack of promise of any type of success—that was only for people who were some kind of superstar research publishing monster—and the general shit pay of a career in academia didn't help.

And, well, if I'm being perfectly honest, the fact that I spent most of my time in university trying to keep a cheating, dirt-bag, shitty boyfriend happy—instead of using my free time to get experience as an undergrad lab assistant like Yasmina—that certainly played a factor.

Honestly, probably just proof I'm not smart enough for grad-school, anyway.

"Yeah," I widened my eyes, tilting my head towards my friend-slash-ex-lab-partner pointedly. "How else are you going to get away with leaving a hotplate on over an entire three-day weekend? Hmm?"

"That, I think," she smiled, looking unsurprisingly self-assured, "is what undergrad assistants are for."

"Ah. Really selling this whole experience right now. 10 hour days, shit pay _and_ I get to deal with dumb undergrads? Sign me the fuck up!"

"It's exactly what we always dreamed it would be," Yasmina replied, faux-dreamily.

Yasmina had given me a lot of shit senior year, when I suddenly stopped joining in her conversations about grad school and then never sent out any applications. From anyone else, it would definitely be a sore subject, but from her?

Well, I guess I was just used to it.

"Yeah?" I hummed. "Well while you're 'living the dream,' I'll just be over here making enough money to actually survive."

"And I'll be over _here_ ," Yasmina replied sounding very self-satisfied, "actually enjoying what I'm doing."

"Ah... okay, whatever you say."

I mean, seriously. As great as it would be to be doing something actually worthwhile with my time and my career, I'd have to be a... a hopeless, idiotic fool to think I would end up better off than working my way up through the industry. That sort of career path was reserved for people who were _special_.

Much more special than I.

"Yeah, whatever," Yasmina said dismissively. "I'm just saying. The offer still stands. If I had to choose, I'd rather work next to someone whose screwups I already know how to predict than a random stranger."

"Wow," I smiled and made a show of clutching my hands over my heart. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Oh shut it."

"No, honestly." I held in my laughter and reached over the table, trying and failing to grab her hands when she snatched them away. "I'm... I'm touched."

"Alright," Yasmina said despite her laugh, shaking her head. "Forget that, then. Offer revoked. You can fend for your own ass, for all I care."

Look at that. She said she cares.

Once we finished laughing, once I finally changed the subject, I finally got her to spill the dirt on all the latest Jens/Jana drama. Which, if I'm being honest was a major reason I tried to get lunch with her in the first place. 

And which, as expected, was very, _very_ stupid.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It had been more than a month since Sander had asked me to be his boyfriend. Which, the more I say it out loud, the more it sounds like... not a really big deal, right? I feel like my brain is treating this like he asked me to marry him, but even if I'm starting to realize how stupid that is, I still can't really articulate why my brain is doing it.

What I do know is that, even if Sander had yet to mention any kind of... timeline, or deadline, or... some other kind of line... a month was a long time to wait. A long time to expect him to wait.

And two months was...

It just didn't seem fair. To Sander. As much as everything that had ever happened between had been slowed or paused or extended by this weird, stupid travel schedule of mine, making him wait a sixth of a year for this? No.

No, that was stupid.

In one day, on the first of June, I would be traveling East for City Number One. A week later, westward for City Number Two. And finally, a week after that, back down South to City Number Three. To Sander. 

And I don't think anyone, not even Sander, would hold it against me if I just stuck to that schedule. Because it's not like I actually had an answer ready to go. There was no reason to think that rushing things would do anything more than make me look like an idiot.

And yet... maybe Milan was right.

 **Sander:** _Are you seriously telling me with all the dumb shit you've done, skydiving is where you draw the line? Skydiving? There are children who go skydiving_

 **Sander:** _What about for 10 thousand euro_

 **Robbe:** _10k wont do me much good if I'm a red smear splattered against the ground._

I mean, we _were_ talking about adventures. Things we wanted to do before the end of the year. Maybe that's why this... idea got stuck in my head. Or maybe...

I don't know.

 **Sander:** _And here i thought you were fearless_

 **Sander:** _Firebreather_

Or maybe it was just that, God knows why, reading _that_ made me feel like...

The firebreather. That's the Robbe I was supposed to be. 

And I don't think I've been that Robbe for a while.

So...

 **Robbe:** _Hey what are you doing next weekend?_

 **Sander:** _Family dinner on Sunday but otherwise not much_

 **Sander:** _Floating the idea of trying out this rock-climbing gym nearby with Senne_

 **Sander:** _How bout you?_

And then I took a deep breath, because for some reason this felt... big. Felt big to type it out, to retype out the part that kept ending up a typo even after three attempts. But there was still that part of me. Maybe it was the firebreather. And it was excited. Excited and, for some reason, very insistent that this is exactly what I should be doing.

And, at least for the moment, as I looked down on those words and hit send... I trusted myself.

 **Robbe:** _How would you feel if I came to visit?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo this took forever to write. Um... apologies. Hope it was worth it. Big steps for Robbe today. Really holding onto hope that I can keep up writing in a faster manner for you all.
> 
> Anyway, love you all. Hope you enjoy!


	15. Juniper and Gin: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe's coming to visit, ahead of schedule, and... to tell the truth, he has no idea what's going to happen.
> 
> I mean, he thinks he has an idea. But he has no idea.

Alright, so we're doing this.

I'm doing this.

Luckily, my company doesn't much care where my Friday train drops me off. As long as I originate from the right city, I could probably go all the way to Spain and I doubt they'd even question my submitted receipt. My original manager was the one who pointed out that it was a great way to start a long-weekend trip. And I've definitely thought about it a few times—Moyo has even made some incredibly convincing points that I should take advantage for my birthday. But, so far, this little adventure from City Number 1 to City Number 3 was the first time I'd ever gone anywhere other than home after a week of work.

So, really, if this all blows up in my face, I don't see why I can't just place all the blame on my company.

Right?

My train would be arriving at 6:30 PM and Sunday at 4 PM would be the last ticket to City Number 2, so that gave me just under 48 hours to do... something.

Which felt...

Well, stressful.

Adding to my stress was that this was going to be a weekend of firsts for a couple of reasons. First time I hadn't returned home for a weekend. First time spending more than 24 hours straight with Sander. First time I'd be staying with him, without a hotel to retreat to. Sleeping with him—and I'm not talking about sex, I mean actually _sleeping_ —two nights in a row.

I mean, I know I've slept with him before, but that was only _once_. My mind was in a weird place that night, and—to be completely honest—I'm not entirely convinced Sander actually slept. What if this weekend, I find out he's actually horrible to share a bed with? Snoring. Kicking. Too warm—he's like a fucking radiator, after all. What if we have a great night but then by Saturday morning I'm miserable because he just snored so fucking loud and _that's_ the mindset I have to be in when I try to decide whether or not I...

Once the train pulled into the station, I waited until my car had emptied entirely before grabbing my suitcase and shouldering my bag. Because, as much as the fire-breather part of me was ready and raring to see Sander, there was another part of me that was nervous. Stepping off the train, onto the platform, through the ticketing lobby there was that part of me that felt nearly-paralyzed by the fact that I still hadn't made my decision.

A part of me that, even as I exited the station and began walking toward the parking lot, worried that I was getting Sander's hopes up for... probably nothing.

But there he was.

Sander wasn't difficult to spot. I mean, honestly—how could you miss him? Especially when he was leaning against the hood of his way-too-fancy car, already meeting my eye. Already smiling. Looking like he was almost too cool to care as he flipped his keys around a finger and slipped his phone into his pocket. And as I made my way toward him—as his smile grew even though he made no effort to get up and help me with my bags—I felt a comfortable storm of warmth growing in my chest. 

And then I realized I felt more excited than scared.

"Hey there," I grinned, hopping over a final small puddle to be in front of him. "Long time, no see."

"Miss me?" With a grin of his own, he shoved off the car's hood so that he was standing before me. A little bit smug, but—more than anything—I could tell that he was excited. Could see it in his eyes.

I nodded, because, as much as I'd said I was making that trip for Sander's sake, the truth was he hadn't been gone three days before I found myself wanting to see him again.

"You know me. Just can't stay away."

With a scoff and a smirk, Sander swept down and instantly I prepared myself for the feel of him pressing into me, lips against mine, hot and solid and... but it never arrived. And when I looked down he was grabbing my bags, then tossing them into his trunk and walking over to the driver's seat. And I was left standing there, trying my best not to look like I was suffering from a horrible case of kiss-related blue balls.

Blue... lips?

Ah... fuck. No. Nevermind. That somehow sounds even more disgusting. 

"You hungry?" He asked as I lowered myself into the passenger seat beside him. 

"Fucking starving," I groaned with an exaggerated sense of urgency. Though I was also pretty fucking hungry. "I had to skip lunch today for a one-on-one with my supervisor."

And then, as Sander began to list off food options—the all-you-can-eat sushi sounding especially intriguing—I settled into my seat, and tried to pay attention to that comfortable warmth bubbling away in my stomach as we chatted. As he started up the car. As he started on a bit of a rant about the meeting he'd had just before picking me up.

I'd been doing that a lot the past few days. Trying to do what Milan had told me to do. Pay attention to how I was feeling. Trust myself. Trust what I felt about Sander. And I'd started to realize something.

And we can talk about the _why_ later, but...

Yes. Absolutely. Of _course_ I want to be Sander's boyfriend.

And, looking back, I don't think that _want_ has ever really been in question. I mean, to be honest, it was almost embarrassingly obvious.

Hell, I've been saying for _weeks_ that, in a perfect world, my answer would have already been 'yes.' Right?

"Hey. Ground control to Major Tom. You good?" The half-singing voice broke me out of my thoughts for the moment, and I looked over to see those eyes searching my face. I imagine he was probably trying to get a read—I mean, he probably took my visit as a good sign, even if I still hadn't made any hints towards one decision or another. 

And I couldn't help but smile. Even as I felt my stomach twist. Just a bit.

"Ah, yeah. Sorry. Just distracted." And then, after shaking my head for a moment. "Just thinking."

So... yeah. Obviously, I _want_ to be official with Sander.

"What about?"

But that's not what this weekend is about. Because _'Will you be my boyfriend?'_ is really two questions in one, isn't it?

Question one: _Do you want to be?_ And, as I've established, that one is a resounding 'Yes.'

I mean... look at the guy.

It's question two: _Are you ready to take that risk?_ Do I think I'm ready—do I think we're _both_ ready—to dive into this. 

And that, question number two... _that's_ what this weekend is about. For me. Figuring out if I'm ready to actually say—out loud and with confidence—that this is what I want. And...

"Nothing important," I shrugged, doing my best to keep any anxiety or frustration or even bubbliness from my voice. Trying to make it match my hopefully-relaxed smile. "I'll tell you later."

And, maybe it was because he knew what I was thinking. Or because he trusted that I wasn't just here to fuck him over. Or, maybe he just didn't know what else to do. But before I could say anything else, Sander just nodded, and smiled, and turned back to the road. And a few minutes later we were walking side by side into the trashiest sushi restaurant I'd ever seen.

Let's do this.

++++++++++++++++++

"Fucking finally!" Sander called as the door to their apartment burst open; as Senne trudged in, hands weighed down with overstretched plastic bags. "The hell took you so long?"

"The place down the street was fucking cleared out, s'what took so long." With a clatter, he dropped the bags filled with cans and loose bottles onto their dining room table, glaring slightly at the two of us as Sander stretched out comfortably on the couch. "No. Don't get up. I've got it."

I watched as Sander very happily stayed where he was and rolled his eyes.

"Don't know where the party is tonight, but I had to walk to fucking Main Street to find a place that had your damn gin and tonics."

We didn't talk after dinner. Well—I mean, we talked. But we didn't _talk_ , y'know? Like almost every other time we had ever been together, my vague plans fell to ruin in the aftermath of dinner and drinks and laughter and an absolutely horrific attempt by Sander to describe the plot of _Titanic_ —which apparently he's never seen? Somehow? It was pretty clear the only thing he knew about it was that it took place on a boat.

And then, before I knew it he was kissing me against the door of his apartment, and we were stumbling in as Senne opened it behind us, and Sander was realizing that his roommate had just finished off the last of their booze, and then Senne was sent out with a credit card and a list of demands for beer and cider and gin and tonic, and...

And so we never got around to talking about anything important.

"Oh my God," I laughed out as Senne poured the loose, yellow, surely-room temperature cans of cheap cocktail onto the table. The many, _many_ cans. And I began to get an idea of exactly what kind of night this was going to be. "I don't think I've had one of those since college!"

The trend continued as Senne emptied the other bag. Cheap beer. The same overly sweet cider that once gave me the worst hangover of my life. And more than enough of each to make all three of us very, _very_ drunk.

Especially since I'd already partaken in a few Japanese beers at the sushi place.

"It was either this or the three-hundred euro bottle of tequila." Senne shook his head lightly before beginning to put the cans of beer in the fridge. "Seriously is there a holiday this weekend I'm not aware of? I've never seen the corner stores so cleared out."

"Probably graduation parties?" with a grunt of effort I pushed myself up, knocking Sander's legs from my lap before wandering over to the table. "First weekend of June. Probably a shit ton of kids celebrating their freedom."

The familiar scent of cheap tonic and even cheaper gin washed over me as I cracked open the first can. The smell of my youth. Of paying a classmate's older brother to buy us the cheapest liquor possible because we were all tired of the even cheaper beer we could get ourselves.

"True." I heard a sigh and then Sander's head was popping up over the back of the couch. "Remember our graduation party?"

A moment of quiet passed before Senne closed the fridge door.

"Uh...—"

" _Exactly!_ "

"I remember the keg," Senne murmured, quickly cracking open his own can of crappy cocktail and pouring it over some ice. "Because I remember I'm the one who had to front the money for the damn thing. And for the handles of vodka _and_ rum."

"And then Arno showed up with like 10 extra people, and his own keg," Sander added, grabbing a room-temp cider for himself. "And then that's pretty much all I remember."

"Yeah. Shit—is that when we broke your dad's pool table?"

"Wait, hold on," I interrupted. "How the fuck do you _break_ a pool table?"

My first sip of the cocktail tasted just about as bad as I remembered it. The metallic twang of the can. The overly harsh gin—probably grain alcohol with a dash of artificial juniper flavoring—forcing a flinch onto my face. It tasted like bad decisions, and hangovers, and the night a sixteen-year-old Robbe almost kissed his passed-out best friend lying dead-to-the-world on a couch.

It was the best, worst way to get drunk.

"According to the videos, by getting seven drunk, shirtless guys to dance on it all at the same time," Sander answered gleefully.

"Why do I get the feeling you were one of those shirtless guys?" I smirked before downing about half the remaining cocktail with a wince. 

"Pfft"—Senne scoffed—"He was probably the reason we were all shirtless." And then he turned to me, acting as if Sander wasn't even in the room, "It's his go-to move whenever he's drunk enough. Makes it his personal fucking mission to get everyone to take off their clothes."

"Oh yeah?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sander said, suddenly beside me, with a grin that I could hear in his words. And then his hand was crawling up my back and pushing my shirt up with it.

His laugh mixed with Senne's resigned sigh as I jumped away.

"I guess I've never seen you drunk, then," I finished off my first can with a smile. I could already feel a warm softness in my cheeks. That tell-tale tingle where I'm not entirely sure if I'm smiling or blushing or both or neither. Already, I felt a sudden surge of giddiness just seeing Sander look at me like that.

Fuck, I forgot how strong these cheap drinks could be.

"Not that drunk."

Is that weird? I mean, I guess it's not weird in and of itself, but is it weird that the first night he met me I was eighty-percent of the way to blackout, full-on-clingy drunk, but I've never seen him more than two or three drinks in?

I found myself wondering if that had anything to do with Sander's meds when I realized Senne was talking again.

"Count yourself lucky," he murmured as he passed on his way back towards the couch. I just smirked as he pulled out his phone and, with a few taps, started music playing on their speakers. Not David Bowie. Just some normal, contemporary, low-key hangout stuff. "He's a pain in the ass when he's drunk."

"Uh, fuck you," Sander began to wander back to their living-room-type-area and I followed close behind, a second can of gin and tonic in one hand and a cider in the other. "I'm a god-damn _delight_ when I'm drunk. You're just jealous because you know you're a grumpy... goblin asshole when you have more than four beers."

"Only when I'm around you," Senne crooned, all false-sweetness and sharp sarcasm, and I found myself stifling a laugh as I made myself comfortable on the floor between Sander's legs. Almost immediately, his fingers began to trace light patterns in my hair. 

God, I fucking _love_ when guys play with my hair.

"Grumpy, goblin-ass, no-fun-policing mother-fucker," Sander half-muttered, half-sang in time with the song. "S'why is why we broke up junior year, you ass." 

"Broke up?" I jerked my head away to stare at the two of them in a suddenly-new light. Holy shit—I mean we still really hadn't talked about... "You mean, you two—"

"He fucking wishes," they interrupted in chorus; Sander smiling and Senne rolling his eyes, almost as if it was all rehearsed.

"No," Sander continued, leaning over to shove his roommate's shoulder as he did. "But this fucker still fucking ghosted me one day. Just fucking disappeared after a party—no texts, no calls—didn't come back to the apartment for a goddamn month."

"Yeah, after you nearly punched me—!"

"Which I apologized for!"

"—because I was the only one willing to stop you from getting yourself arrested!" Despite his words, they were both smiling now, as if remembering a shared, long-forgiven embarrassment. Which, I guess is exactly what there were doing. So... it's a very apt description, is what I'm saying.

"So says you."

"I'm warning you," Senne turned to me, and I suddenly remembered that I should probably start engaging in this conversation, "He only ever has two goals when he's drunk. Get everyone naked. And commit the dumbest fucking crimes you can think of. Seriously. I pray for the day when he's no longer my responsibility."

Sander's 'fuck you' came out a little faster and harsher than expected while Senne laughed it off and I pretended not to recognize the subtext of his words—that Sander was gonna be _my_ responsibility. Which, I mean, that's not how I would—

Fuck it. I just locked that away to think about later.

"Probably still better than me." I leaned back, nearly finishing my second can of the acerbic cocktail, and wrapped my arm around one of Sander's legs. The slight, comfortable warmth pulled tight against my side was very enjoyable. "I either end up hurting myself, or I—fuck—I suddenly think every guy I see is gay and secretly trying to sleep with me."

Moyo is especially fond of mocking me for the latter habit.

"Oh, you'll love drunk-Zoë, then." Senne sat up, pulling out his phone. "Which—she says she's on her way over. And to save her some ciders."

"I'll put one in the freezer!" Sander grunted as he pushed himself up from the couch—nearly toppling over when I refused for a few seconds to let his leg go. " _Don't_ let me forget about it. I don't want to have to clean shards of glass and cider-sludge from the ice tray tomorrow."

"Wait—what about drunk-Zoë? What does she do?" I asked as I pushed myself up to take Sander's spot on the couch.

"Oh, she becomes convinced that every guy she sees is gay, too."

"Even Senne!" Sander called over his shoulder as he carried an armful of bottles to the kitchen.

"Fuck off!"

+++++++++++++++++++++

By the time Zoë arrived with a bottle of wine, Sander had already convinced me to join him in taking off my shirt. Within an hour, he had convinced Senne and Zoë to begrudgingly do the same.

What can I say? He can be very persuasive. While seeing Zoë's bra wasn't exactly exciting for me, it was quite a joy to feel free as the warm skin of Sander's chest pressed against my back. And—if I'm being totally honest—both Sander and Senne were very nice on my increasingly inebriated eyes.

Hey, I'm only human.

With the infusion of new, slightly less drunk blood, the night gained some fresh energy. And a new soundtrack—she was very insistent that neither Senne nor Sander should be in charge of the playlist.

Two hours, a bottle of wine, and some number of other assorted drinks later, Senne was ordering a pizza that no one else wanted, and Zoë and I were debating which unmarried celebrities were secretly gay—and then sagaciously agreeing that it was almost all of them.

Man, I do _not_ get to use the word 'sagaciously' enough.

Sagaciously.

Sagaciously.

Say it with me, c'mon— _sagaciously._

It's fun, right? Fun to say. Makes you feel smart. Like you didn't completely waste your time will all those years of school.

And then when the buzzer rang for the pizza, Senne was too busy sitting on Sander's back to keep him from playing some... prank, or something, so Zoë and I had to stand up and go get it. Which is fucking criminal. And for some reason _I_ had to pay? The delivery guy didn't even have an opinion on whether Tom Cruise was gay. Which was bullshit.

I didn't even want the pizza.

It did smell good, though.

"You're fun" Zoë concluded as we finally agreed that Tom Cruise was probably bisexual. "I'm glad you came back."

"Thanks. You're fun, too." For a moment I just smiled mindlessly at the elevator doors as we waited for the unbelievably slow machine to make its way back down to the lobby. Then, as I watched the light slowly transition from three to two, my brain caught up a little.

"Came back? Where'd I go?"

Zoë turned to me, puffed-out cheeks and wide eyes accompanied by an unknowing shrug. "Dunno. But you weren't here. Sandy—er was super bummed." 

Wait—Bummed? What... I feel like that word can mean a lot of things.

Only after a moment of silence, as the elevator doors finally opened with a ding, did she turn back to whisper, "Did you two have a fight? You can tell me if you did. I promise I won't just take his side."

"No." I answered quickly, and I think I might have sounded a bit defensive. Was I being defensive? Cause we didn't have a fight. Not really. "Ah, no—no fight. I was just at home. Got sick, is all."

"For two months?" She asked, sounding worried in the way only a confused, drunk girl can. "Is—are you okay?"

"No—no, no. I just—I was only sick for a few days. But that's why I wasn't _here_ -here." I shifted the pizza box to one hand and pressed the six-button, initiating the slow ascent back to the apartment. I looked over and saw a look in her eyes like she was trying to parse out a complicated equation with a variable missing. And it took me a second to figure out why. "I don't live around here. I live in Antwerp."

"Oh!" she called out, much louder than I was expecting. Like... ow. As I winced, I feel like I could see things apparently clicking together in her mind. "Oh shit. Does Sander know?"

I... what?

"Ah... yeah. Yeah, he knows."

"Of course! That makes so much sense!" She practically-shouted once again as the elevator slowly crawled from floor three to floor four. "That makes so much more sense—I was worried you just didn't like us. But—no, that makes more sense. That's good."

"Ah, yeah." I chucked at her overly enthusiastic response as we finally coasted to a stop at the top floor. "Yeah, I'm down here one week a month for work. This weekend is just visiting—I mean, of my personal... of not-for work."

"That's good," Zoë nodded as the doors opened. And then again, "That's good."

And then—something I was _not_ expecting—I suddenly felt her hand squeezing my shoulder, stopping me halfway out of the elevator. And then she was walking out in front of me, looking over her shoulder with a smile. "He really likes you, y'know?"

"I, ah..."

Not sure how to respond, I just followed behind as we approached the door to the apartment. Pausing for just a moment as I tried to formulate some words in my gin-and-cider-fogged mind, but eventually giving up when Zoë offered another smile and opened the door. 

And, considering the scene we returned to—Sander, slung over Senne's shoulder like a sack of potatoes, weakly beating on his roommate's bare back as the clearly-winning Senne prepared to hurl him onto the couch—whatever words I might have come up with were _immediately_ wiped from my mind. All I could do was watch as Sander flew through the air with a yelp, onto the cushions, and then quickly started to grab Senne's arm to drag him down with him. 

Watch, and lean over to a similarly awestruck Zoë, and whisper.

"Is it just me, or is this sorta hot?"

++++++++++++++++++++++

It was around one-thirty in the morning when Senne and I had to carry an unconscious Sander to his bed. 1:27 exactly is what I remember, but I was, admittedly, still fairly drunk and incredibly tired. So not sure how accurate that memory could be.

Sander was the second casualty of the night. Zoë had gone to bed about an hour before—despite starting later and soberer than the rest of us, she had caught up fast and opted to go to bed once we had devolved watching random YouTube videos on their smart TV. And then, some time after that—I guess about an hour later—I looked down at my lap to realize that at some point Sander had turned away from the screen and passed out with his face in my crotch.

Which I found so funny that I'm surprised the shaking of my laughter didn't wake him up. 

And so with Senne's help, we carefully removed him from my lap, and then slightly less carefully tucked him into bed. Which is around the time I realized that the night should probably be at its end.

"Do you know if he has any, ah..." I glanced up at Senne, whom I hoped was probably significantly less drunk—or at least significantly more useful—than me, scratching my head as I searched for the word. "Ibuprofen? I have a feeling we're all gonna feel like... like shit. In the morning."

"Uh, yeah," Senne sighed as he pulled the blankets over his roommate, only to watch him immediately kick them off in his sleep. "In the kitchen. C'mon."

Starting to feel my own energy plummeting, and a night of surely-heavy sleep calling me, I shook my head and began to follow his lead into the kitchen. 

When I'm functional, I liked to end a night of drinking with water and ibuprofen. In hopes of stemming the pain of the next day's headache. Sander was a bit of a lost cause at that point, but I'd set out a glass of water with some pills for him just in case he woke up in the middle of the night.

"Do you, uh, have everything you need?" Senne asked as he pulled four heavy-bottomed glasses from one of the cabinets. "Toothbrush? Toothpaste? I dunno..."

It's still sort of surprising to me how much an... adult—I guess?—apartment the two of them have. Like, they have a full set of real glassware. Their silverware, from what I could tell, all matched. Everything Milan and I owned was pretty piece-meal. Everything was a different brand or missing part of the set. Including our furniture. I mean... Sander's couch did not look like they got it used from online.

I guess that's all part of having money.

"Yeah," I nodded, absentmindedly hopping up to sit on the counter as he filled four glasses with cold water from the fridge. "My bag's in... ah shit-fuck. It's still in his trunk. Fuck it—I'll get it in the morning."

"We probably have a spare somewhere if you want." I accepted the offered drink, suddenly feeling incredibly thirsty as soon as the cool glass was in my hand. Shit. I felt like I hadn't had anything to drink for days.

"I, ah... I'm good. Thanks." I replied before immediately downing my glass, chugging that crisp, clean water like my life depended on it. Which... maybe it did. Y'know?

What were we talking about again?

"How many?" I glanced up just as Senne reached behind me, opening the cabinet next to my head.

"Huh?"

"How many ibuprofen?" And then, with a clumsy movement, he pulled out a large white bottle—almost the size of my head—knocking something small and orange onto the counter and then the ground in the process. 

"Oh, uh... two—don't worry, I got it."

Before Senne could stop what he was doing, I hopped down from the counter, kneeling down to pick up what I quickly realized was a pill-bottle—rocking slowly back and forth where it had come to a stop in front of the sink. I could hear the faint rattle of the pills as I picked it up, could see the ten-or-so small blue tablets that still remained out of what—based on the size of the tube—was clearly originally a much larger amount. 

Obviously, even drunk I could figure out they were Sander's.

Without even really thinking, I examined the information. _Sertraline._

And—hey, that's the same anti-depressant my mom takes. The words on the sticker may have been fuzzy in front of my eyes, but I'd been opening bottles like this and verifying the instructions and dosage and sometimes even filling my Mom's pillbox since I was sixteen. I'd have to be _blackout_ drunk before I didn't recognize that name.

It was just so familiar.

And then, for a moment, I wasn't in Sander's kitchen anymore. I was in my Mom's. This was the first weekend in months that I hadn't gone to visit her. Check up on her. Have dinner with her. And standing there, way more than half drunk, I suddenly remembered that she was probably near the end of her sixty-day prescription. And that I wasn't there to remind her. Because she needed to reorder at least five days ahead of time—five business days, actually—or she might miss a day while the pharmacy re-fills it, and—

"Yo! Hey!"

And then I was back in Sander's kitchen, the little orange bottle of pills being ripped from my hand by a... frustrated-looking Senne.

"God... fucking damn it," came out in an exasperated whisper.

"Huh? What's..." I watched as he returned the bottle of pills to an open space on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, carefully and quietly closing the cabinet door when he was done.

"Hey. If you're gonna get freaked out by some simple pills, maybe you shouldn't stick your nose in shit you can't handle."

Between the whispers and the mutual drunkenness, I couldn't get a handle on exactly what tone Senne was going for. But in the relative quiet of the apartment, he sounded... harsh. Softened, and slurred a bit by the booze. But harsh, nonetheless.

"What? No, I—"

"Is that what your problem is? The... the bipolar thing?"

Despite the only light source in the apartment being the paused television, I could just make out as Senne crossed his arms over his chest, as his flushed features hardened.

"No! No, I... What problem? I don't have a problem," I answered quickly, feeling like I was backpedaling from something I hadn't even said. Too much for my brain to handle, honestly. "No, I... there's no problem."

A moment of silence passed, tension filling the kitchen as I watched Senne look down at the ground, watched him kick at it with his toe before looking up at me with this... fierce stare. Penetrating stare.

And then he blinked.

"Sure." He whispered after another moment. Nodding a bit before turning to replace the bottle of ibuprofen—moving quickly, as if he didn't want me to be able to look inside the cabinet for longer than strictly necessary. "Fine. You... you seem like a nice—whatever."

And then, with a sigh, he grabbed two of the water glasses and turned toward his room, leaving a small pile of orange circular tablets on the counter where he stood. And before I could figure out how exactly I was supposed to answer, and apparently save face with Sander's roommate—what the fuck?—he stopped at the edge of the counter.

"But—fuck—can you hurry up and at least tell _him_ the truth?" He asked, his voice sounding more sober and more... tired, than before. "I'm getting tired of watching my best friend get dragged along by someone who can't get over their own bullshit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I end every chapter nowadays with an apology for taking so goddamn long to get out the chapter. I've definitely been having a tough time writing lately. So, once again this chapter note starts with an apology, and a hope that this trend of taking ages between chapters does not continue.
> 
> But as for the chapter itself... big moves! Robbe's visiting. Senne and Zoe are here! What in the world is Robbe going to do? What do you guys think about his solo scenes with Senne and Zoe? Do they fit? I feel like they work, and are important, but also I'm the writer and so can definitely convince myself of things when I think they're necessary for the story. Please let me know what you think!


	16. Juniper and Gin: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where Robbe panics.
> 
> You can tell because he swears in just about every line.

Shit. Okay. Shit.

Is it... conceited? That I never...

_Shit._

What if...

Fuck.

Shit!

I can't... I couldn't think. About that. My brain was too fuzzy. And heavy. And fuzzy. It was way too early for a hangover but I could feel a pounding in my skull and in my chest and a...

No.

Later.

Sander was dead to the world by the time I made it back to his room. Which took me a minute. A few minutes until I realized that Senne might come back and I needed to not be in the kitchen if that were to happen.

He was a sloppy drunk, y'know. Sander. In an incredibly cute way, but still. He'd spent the last half of the night doing little more than draping himself across the three of us. Taking selfies and calling them art. Still shirtless. Seemingly unaware of where the various parts of his body even were. Occasionally asking for things, his slurred words and directives coming out with the exaggerated drama and gravitas of some victorian widower dying of the black lung. In like... a period movie, or some shit.

And for the last, like... hour? He'd just been on me. Only me. Whining like a puppy when I had to stand up to take a piss. Draping himself onto my lap as soon as I got back. Earning rolled eyes and scoffs from Zoë and... and Senne.

Did he hate me then, too?

Does Senne hate me?

I can't—no. Later.

Sander was splayed out on the bed like a starfish, sheets kicked down to his feet, breaths alternating between deep and shallow, hair—somehow—already a mess. Down to only a pair of tight briefs that—were we sober, were I already his boyfriend, were I not feeling like such a fucking shitbag—would normally be a huge fucking turn on.

I'd honestly been looking forward to sharing a bed with him again. To sleeping with him again. _Sleeping_. To seeing what it was like when my brain wasn't so fucked up by the idea of intimacy with another fucking human being. I'd been excited.

Now I felt awkward.

And a little bit sick. Maybe that was the booze, though.

I drank a _lot_ of gin and tonics. And a few beers. And some of Zoë's wine. Probably made an ass of myself without even realizing it. I do that, sometimes. 

Fuck, it'd been a long time since I'd been _this_ drunk. I could feel myself losing my balance as I stood there.

I wanted to fall into the bed and cuddle up next to Sander. He looked warm. Comfortable. I wanted that. But I didn't deserve that. Not anymore.

Had I... had I _hurt_ him? Senne certainly seemed to think so. I mean, I'm not—look, I told you, right? I knew I wasn't necessarily being _fair_. I told you that. That's why I was here. Off schedule. But Sander, he always seemed so... steady. Right? In our texts, on his surprise visit, when he picked me up, when he—

When he...

Fuck. _Fuck_! I'm such a fucking idiot. Such a grade-A, full-fledged, top marks emotional _dumbass_! I...

How the fuck did I never—until right that moment, drunkenly staring down at him, watching as his eyes danced behind his eyelids—realize that it might have been an act? The... bravado. The steadiness. The chill. All a mask. To cover up the finger-tapping, lip-chewing, scared and lonely truth. One he only had to keep up when I was around. Only...

Fuck—only to take the pressure off me.

Senne probably knew the whole truth of—

Oh my god. 

_I'm_ the asshole.

I could feel it crashing over me, accelerated, intensified by just how drunk I was. I could feel it in my head. Behind my eyes. In my chest. In my gut. In my fucking legs. I felt like I was falling.

I felt like I had already fallen, and just hadn't realized it.

And then Sander started. Inhaling like he was breathing for the first time. I watched, frozen as his head lifted off the pillow, as half-lidded eyes skated around the room. Looking empty until they landed on me and opened up a little bit more.

"Rob'n? S'wrong?" It was a whisper. A still-drunk murmur. It would have been adorable if not for the fact that I felt my throat go dry.

"Ah..." I shook my head. "Just brushing my teeth," I lied. But Sander didn't seem to notice. Just nodded his head for a second, like I had just given him some very wise advice.

And then—body clearly still on the edge of sleep—he reached an arm toward me with a simple, quiet question. "Bed?"

And... as shitty and drunk as I felt, I wanted to figure out how to explain that I was just going to sleep on the couch. Or maybe the floor—I probably deserved the floor. But then I realized he was still looking at me. Half asleep but with steady eyes, fingers waving me to the empty space beside him with all the clumsy grace of a drunk toddler. Reaching down to find the sheets bunched up at his feet, and hold them up for me to crawl into.

And I just... I couldn't say no.

Okay?

In the end, I gave in. I had to. I couldn't not. I let myself crawl into the bed—the edge of the bed—doing my best to take up the smallest possible space. To be as gentle and quiet as possible. Grabbing just enough of the sheets to cover me and turning to face the wall. Because that was more than I deserved, probably.

He must hate me. 

I would hate me.

Which is what I was telling myself when I felt the warmth of Sander's arm clumsily wrap around my chest, dragging me insistently to the center of the bed, dragging himself closer until I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and his forehead nuzzling against my hair. 

"G'night." He whispered it, already sounding more asleep as his body lined up with mine, as his arm squeezed my middle one last time.

And it felt so good. And warm. And comforting. And that made me feel even worse.

Shit.

"Night, Sander."

"G'night. Rob'n."

And then his breathing evened out, and he was gone.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I woke up to the sound of a door closing. And of soft, steady breathing beside me.

I woke up to the feeling of warm skin pressed against my side, an arm draped over my chest, and one frozen foot sticking out of the blankets.

I woke up to Sander—still asleep, though now on his stomach and more splayed out than he had been when I got into bed. But still with me, still touching me in a way that seemed almost deliberate.

I woke up with one hell of a headache, some faint nausea, and a horrible case of cotton-mouth.

And then, a few seconds later, I woke up with the memory of Senne's words as he'd left me in the kitchen the previous night.

_"I'm tired of watching my best friend get dragged along by someone who can't get over their own bullshit."_

He may have been wrong about the cause, but now that it was in my head, I couldn't stop thinking about how _right_ it was.

I've been such a fucking asshole.

But before I could think about it too much, I heard a deep inhale beside me. Deep, and long, and sounding like it was the first breath he'd ever taken—and just like the night before, I watched his bleach-white head pop up. I felt the bed shift and the warmth of his arm slide away as he turned onto his back, as he stretched and rubbed at his eye and let out a muted groan. And then, before I knew it, he was looking at me, a sleepy smile on his face as he ran a hand through his messy hair.

He was awake.

Shit. Okay. Play it cool, Robbe.

"Morning." His voice was soft and a little creaky, but it was warm. And part of me was busy realizing that this was the first time I'd ever heard this morning-voice of his, busy blushing at how fucking _nice_ it sounded—but that part was a little overwhelmed by the rest of my brain's focus on this new emotional fucking... paradigm. That Senne had introduced the night before. 

The one where I'm an asshole.

"Morning." The word squeaked out and I immediately tried to cover it up with a yawn.

Does he hate me? Or does he hold some... resentment? For not saying yes? For being so weird, and dragging him along while I didn't know what I wanted? For leaving him high and dry and then still texting him every day, acting like there was nothing hanging over our words, and—

"How long have you been up? What time..." I tried not to stare while he patted around the sheets, finally stopping when he saw his phone plugged in on the nightstand beside him. "Oh, shit—almost noon? Fuck, I feel like I got hit by a goddamn truck."

As I watched, his smile faltered behind a wince as he pressed his fingers to his temples.

"Oh, I, ah..." One more look at his nightstand confirmed that I had completely forgotten the medicine in the kitchen the night before. Shit. No wonder I felt like death. "Hold on. I'll get us, some, ah..."

I crawled out of the bed as the word _ibuprofen_ continued to escape my tongue—pausing momentarily when I realized I was wearing nothing but my briefs, but continuing out of the room before I could process Sander looking at me. I just had to hope that that closing door that had woken me had been the sound of us being left alone, or—

"Oh! Uh, good morning."

As soon as I exited Sander's room, the combination of Zoë's voice and the bright, mid-day sunlight nearly made me stumble back into the quiet, isolated dimness behind me. Instead, I froze, facing toward where the kitchen would be until my eyes finally adjusted to the light, and I could make sense of Sander's friend sitting at the counter, steaming mug in one hand and phone in the other. Looking at me with a bemused smile and—I'm pretty sure—a suppressed laugh. 

Thank fuck I wasn't fucking naked. Or— _God_ —dealing with a case of morning wood.

Or, I guess, both.

"Ah... Morning." I immediately fast-walked to the kitchen, hoping that standing at the other side of the counter would keep my bits from view while I grabbed last night's abandoned water and pills.

"Senne just ran to grab some bagels. If you hurry, I could text him your order. If you want."

"Oh, I, uh—" I looked up from grabbing my glass to see Zoë already looking down at her phone. Still smirking, though. Fuck. Thank God the 'sexy' underwear I'd packed was still in the bag in Sander's trunk. At least these left something to the imagination. "I'm not really—"

"Did someone say bagels?" Sander's voice called from the bedroom behind me. A moment later I saw his bed-head peak out around the still-open door. "I would _kill_ for a lightly-toasted sesame bagel with butter and chive cream cheese."

"A classic. I'll let Senne know," Zoë replied immediately as I quickly downed my pain-killers. Fuck, my head was killing me. "Robbe? Do you want anything?"

"Carbs are good for hangovers, right?" I saw Sander's head disappear, only for him to emerge from his room a moment later in a pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt. A look he pulled off _very_ well. "I haven't felt this bad in... years. Fuck."

Zoë shrugged as Sander winced at the light and I rushed to put the pills and water in his hand. His pained smile and quiet thanks left me feeling conflicted as he downed the tablets in a quick gulp. Because as I stood there and watched him wander to the other side of the kitchen, pull out a pill bottle, and repeat the action with one of the same little blue tablets from last night, I couldn't stop thinking about Senne's accusation. The implication of it.

The part of my brain that kept playing the scene over and over again, that wanted me to sleep on the floor, was now yelling at me that—no matter how this weekend ended—I needed to make it up to Sander. Assuming Senne was right. And why wouldn't he be right? I needed to—

But then Zoë was talking—saying something, I don't even know—and my brain was replaying _her_ words. Her happy, drunken words that I hadn't even really thought about the night before, but, _'He really likes you, y'know?'_ is pretty fucking unambiguous. Right? And, like, the polar opposite emotion of what Senne had implied just a few hours later. And—

Fuck. It was so fucking loud. My brain was so fucking loud. And so fucking confused. I could barely even think about what I was _supposed_ to be focusing on this weekend.

I was too busy listening to those conflicting scenes playing out in my memory. Watching Sander for any sign that... I don't know. That he hated me. Or that he... the opposite of hated me. Or...

_Of course, he hated me. I knew better than anyone how painful it is to be dragged along by an asshole._

But then... why did he keep glancing over his shoulder at me; smiling as he discusses various hangover cures with his friend and business partner? 

_What if that is an act, too? False strength and false happiness aren't too much different. For all I know—_

Oh my fucking God. Fuck! I could already feel myself running in circles. My head was pounding. I could feel my stomach twisting—much more than just the aftereffects of a night of drinking. Shit. Maybe this was all just... a big mistake. Maybe—

"Robbe. Robbe? Earth to IJzermans—is that you?"

The constant cycle of confusion and stress and screaming in my head came to a screeching halt. Tripping over the interruption of Sander's voice as I simultaneously realized that he was talking to me, that I'd been staring, and that there was a buzzing sound coming from beside me.

"Huh?"

"Your phone?" He asked, nodding toward where the device was buzzing on the counter by my hip. 

Oh. Well, what do you know?

"Huh. I, uh..." I glanced down, just in time to see the familiar splash screen fade to black as my phone went silent. There was really only one person in my life who ever actually _called_ me. "Shit. That was my Mom. I ah... I should probably call her back."

Sander nodded, a little 'okay' grunt following as I swiped up my phone and began to head for some privacy. And also some space. Because I needed to clear my head and the only way I could think to do that was to not be staring directly at Sander.

"Wait, Robbe! Bagel? Senne's about to put in the order," Zoë called after me as I walked toward the entryway.

"Uh, sure," I answered over my shoulder, reaching for the front door. The idea of a bagel was utterly unimportant to my mind—I just wanted to get out of there without seeming rude. "Plain, I guess? With butter."

I just needed a minute to breathe. And think. And clear my mind. And—

"Got it. Oh—wait. No, don't do—!"

I paused, door already halfway open, and did my best not to let out the sigh of frustration that was echoing around my chest. So fucking close.

"Yeah?" I asked, trying not to sound hurried as I glanced over my shoulder. "I'm just gonna be a minute. Want to make sure everything's okay at home."

I mean, what else could they need? And why was she staring at me like that? Clearly holding back a laugh. And why was Sander looking me up and down like some sort of...

Oh.

"Y'know, if you need to borrow some clothes, I'm happy to share."

Right.

+++++++++++++++++++

Once I was fully clothed—in yesterday's outfit—and outside the apartment, I felt like I could finally breathe. It was a pretty nice day, though my head still throbbed at the brightness when I stepped out of the building, with the early-summer heat sinking pleasantly into my bones after the night in Sander's over-air-conditioned apartment. It would probably be too hot soon, but for the moment it was exactly what I needed, and I could feel myself unwind as I listened to the calls of children playing in a nearby park.

I needed to take a minute before I got around to calling back my Mom.

Without Sander, or Senne, or even Zoë in front of me to send my mind spinning I could finally...

Think.

But even alone, I could feel my mind running in circles. Repeating the same thoughts that lead to the same speculations and questions and—

I needed to take stock of what I knew. For sure. For pretty sure.

Like... Well, I was pretty sure Sander didn't out-and-out hate me.

The jury was still out on Senne. But, unless Sander was playing a very long game of 'fuck with the guy who fucked with my feelings'—and I really, _really_ wanted to believe that he wasn't that kind of guy—his actions just don't make sense for someone who hates me. 

What I still don't know is how Sander _really_ feels about me... dragging my feet.

Though, that may be because I've done everything in my power to avoid actually talking about that particular topic for the past few weeks.

I just... It's fair for him to be hurt. Right? If I'm being honest with myself, I expect that. Because if you ask someone to be your boyfriend, I'm pretty sure that any answer other than an enthusiastic 'yes' is going to hurt at least a little.

But... even operating on that assumption, the idea of getting _confirmation_? That I hurt him?

Holy shit, that made me feel like such a piece of shit.

And the idea that there might be some _resentment_ there—the kind that might fester, and grow, and rot—look, I know how hard that can be to forgive. I know how easy it is to hold on to that kind of thing without even realizing it. Fuck, look at my relationship with my Dad! Shit. Maybe that's why I haven't let myself think about it until...

I'd been so worried about Sander hurting me, I hadn't even thought about how I might hurt Sander.

What if it was already too late?

Would it make things better if I—I don't know... told him? About David, and my history, and... everything? Would that just be me trying to put up an excuse for my own cowardice? My own hesitance? 

Fuck. I could already feel my mind spinning in circles of logic and anger and disappointment and...

Of course, there was a correct answer, wasn't there? A simple one, too. Just... rip off the bandage. Get it over with. Ask. Ask the question. Do it.

Even if the act of asking might be what causes everything to fall apart. Even then. _Stop being such a goddamn coward._

Fuck! Fuck me.

Isn't this something I'm supposed to already fucking know? A life lesson I already fucking learned? That dealing with the single, painful blow of the truth is preferable to torturing yourself with infinite maybes? 

Isn't that the goddamn moral of the story that I was supposed to learn from David?

Why is this so fucking hard?

Why... fuck it! Just fuck it. I don't know. I couldn't even really summon up the energy to be angry at myself. More... disappointed. Maybe there's a universe out there whose Robbe actually masters the whole... personal growth thing. Who doesn't need his own personal guru because he actually learns things after the first go-round.

Not me though. That's definitely not me.

Fuck. Fuck it—what was I doing again? Oh, right. I was supposed to be calling my...

My... when the fuck did I end up in a park?

How the fuck did I walk all the way to a park without realizing it? I must have crossed at least one street. I...

Once I got over the fact that I probably should have been run over by a car—which... took a minute—and once I found an isolated bench in a shaded area of the park, I pulled out my phone. There were a few messages from Jens that must have come in while I was sleeping, but I dismissed the notifications for the moment, opting pull up my Mom's contact page and start it dialing. 

I didn't want to give myself another chance to get distracted. Might end up in fucking... Spain. Or something. I don't know. I—

"Hey, Mama. How's it—"

"Robbe, dear, perfect timing. I was just about to walk into the market. Tell me, how do you feel about roast pork for tomorrow's lunch? It looks like it's on sale."

"Tomorrow?" I leaned my weight against the back of the bench, finding myself suddenly asking if I had remembered to tell my Mom that I'd be out of town that weekend. I had, right? I was like... ninety-five perfect sure that I had. "Mom, I'm—"

"Oh, and they have apples on sale too. Well, that settles it. Roast pork with apples—ooh, and parsnips. I know it's not autumn yet, but it'll be delicious."

"No, Mama, I..." I let out a sigh as I heard her pause. I distinctly remember telling her, actually, because I distinctly remember her being surprisingly... blasé about it. Fuck, unless that was a dream, or something.

"What? Don't you like parsnips?"

"No—I mean, yeah. I like parsnips." I continued speaking through her relieved sigh. "But I'm not going to be there for lunch tomorrow. I'm out of town this weekend. Remember?"

There was a pause, and I feel like I could _hear_ my mom stop what she was doing. Which makes no real sense, but...

"Out of town? No, I don't... for work? Honey, they really do need to give you a break—especially with how little they're paying you."

"No, Mama," I shook my head, even though she obviously couldn't see me. "No, not for work. I'm with a... a friend. I told you last weekend."

Alright, so I haven't told my Mom about Sander, but I fully expect he hasn't told his parents about me, either. So you're not gonna get me feeling guilty about that one. I clearly have enough to feel guilty about already.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Mama." I mean, I'm pretty sure.

"Dear, I'm fairly sure I would remember something like that. I wouldn't have turned down plans with Helga if I knew that."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes a little at the slightly-offended tone coming through the line. See, this is what I'd expected when I told her. Which I'm just gonna say I did. 

"Well, maybe you can let her know you're free, now" I suggested, hoping to mollify her frustration. Even still, I couldn't help feeling like the teenager who only asked if he could go to a party after he was caught trying to sneak out.

Parents, y'know?

"Maybe," she replied, followed up by a disappointed sigh. "But in the future, the polite thing to do is to give your mother some notice before you change plans on her. Alright, Dear?"

Jesus...

"Okay, yeah. I definitely did tell you, though, Mama," I shook my head, doing my best to keep any disbelief or laughter from my voice. "I promise."

"Mhmm. Is this like when you _promised_ you would definitely send your father a text for his birthday?"

Ah. Well, you see...

"Um..."

"A simple text, Robbe. That's all you had to do."

I could hear the disappointment dripping between her words. Along with more than a little bit of frustration.

Well, that conversation took a turn.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I forgot," I lied. Because trying to explain why I would make the active decision not to write out a simple text seemed like way more emotional effort than I could handle at that moment.

"Robbe, he's your father."

"Mama—"

"No, I'm not—I'm not arguing this with you again, Robbe, not today." The finality in her tone betrayed how much she clearly didn't want to have the conversation. Again. "He's your father. And he has tried time and again to prove to you that that's what he wants to be and for _years_ you've rebuffed him at every opportunity. Years. Do you have any idea how much that hurts for a parent to go through? For a parent to watch? I wouldn't be surprised if he just... decided it wasn't worth trying, soon."

I stayed quiet, then. Partly because I knew there was no way to respond without sounding like I was arguing. Or like a brat. Partly because... fuck that. And partly because... she was right. At least with one part.

I hadn't exactly returned my father's last few attempts to reach out.

On the other end of the line I could hear my mom taking a few slow, deep breaths. A sigh. I could picture her rubbing at her temples. That's what she usually does when she isn't sure what to say to me. Or when she thinks she crossed a line. Which—fair.

"I'm sorry. I'm not—I shouldn't have said that."

And, yeah. I'll agree with that.

"Alright, Mama."

"Look, Robbe," I heard her sigh again. Disappointment, again, though I wasn't sure if it was for me or herself. "I know he's not perfect—" understatement of the century, "—and I'm not asking you to forgive him for everything. Okay?"

"Okay," I nodded, voice muted. I'm not even entirely sure she heard me.

"I'm just asking you to recognize when he makes an effort. Okay? And it wouldn't kill you to throw the first—no. I'm sorry—you know what I mean. To reach out. To make an effort yourself."

"Alright, Mama," I shook my head. And then, when she didn't respond for a moment, and I began to worry that she was going to start up again: "Are you going to give Helga a call?"

"Huh? Oh. Um, yes. Yes, I think I will."

"Okay," I nodded, pushing myself up off the bench and beginning the walk back towards where I was pretty sure Sander's apartment was. Break time was over. "Oh, and before I forget—don't forget to call in the refill for you sertraline. I think you're near the end of your prescription."

Another moment of silence passed, and I wondered if this was another one of those son-or-caretaker mixups I'd spoken out of turn. Oh well.

"Already did," eventually came through the line, and I'll admit... there was a bit of a relief.

"Good. Okay, well... love you, Mama."

"Love you too, dear. You... you have a good weekend."

"I will." And then, before she could add anything else to the fire: "Bye."

+++++++++++++++

Make an effort. 

Of course. Why didn't I think of that.

After our late breakfast-slash-lunch, once we'd all mostly recovered from our hangovers—which took long enough that the idea of going to a rock-climbing gym had become truly laughable—Senne and Zoë bid us farewell to go spend the rest of the weekend at Zoë's apartment.

Or, as Zoë put it, 'to give you and Sander some _alone_ time.'

Which—I'm not going to say it had been _uncomfortable_ being around Senne. But... well it definitely wasn't comfortable. Not that he did anything. I didn't catch any dirty glares or side-eyes or anything. Hell, there's a chance he didn't even remember what he'd said to me the night before—after all, he was quite drunk too. But that didn't do anything to assuage the fact that _I_ remembered. And there was that very loud part of me that was waiting for him to say something again. To get impatient.

So, I may have felt a bit of relief as the two of them bid us farewell in the early evening.

But then I realized that meant I was alone with Sander, and, well... that was a whole different type of stress.

_Make an effort. Try to prove to you..._

God, sometimes I wish things could just be simple, you know? That my Dad and I could just be estranged. That David and I had _just_ broken up. That Sander and I were _just_ boyfriends.

Fuck, I wish we could just be boyfriends. No long-distance, no anxiety, no prior fucking trauma. Why is it so fucking complicated?

"Alright. Dinner? What'cha thinking?"

And, like, what did she even mean by that 'he's tried to prove that he wants to be your father,' stuff? How does one _prove_ that? 

"I dunno." I shrugged. I was still fighting that... discomfort when talking to Sander. The one that said I needed to make it up to him. Make... everything up to him. "What's around here that we can walk to?

"Uh... one sec," Sander pulled out his phone. "Um... in walking distance... there's McDonald's. And, um..."

I mean, how does one 'prove' anything. Especially when it comes to relationships. That's why I came on this trip, right? To try to 'prove' to myself whether or not Sander was someone I could take a risk on. But, like... what sort of proof was I looking for? 

I mean, look at what Sander's already _done_. He's been honest with me. About potentially hurtful things, potentially scary things, without me even having to _ask_. He's been open, and forward, and all the things I've been nervous, or scared, or ashamed to be. He's made it clear he's willing to adjust things for our relationship. He's dropped plenty of hints that he's thinking long term. And he hasn't been shy when it came to telling me about his past. His family. His arrest record. I mean, I'm sure there are still secrets out there but let's be fucking reasonable, okay?

And here I was, still looking for more. I mean, if _that's_ not enough to prove that Sander...

To prove that Sander is... worth the risk—to...

To...

Shit.

Shit, I... I—hold on. Hold the...

If _that's_ not enough, then... what the fuck is _wrong_ with me?

I've... I've had it all backward. This whole time—Sander doesn't need to prove himself. 

Because, Sander... Sander proved himself when I wasn't even paying attention. Fuck—he did, didn't he? I've been dragging this out, dragging him along for weeks, but Sander proved himself _months_ ago. When he told me he was bipolar. And again when he told me about his family. And _again_ when he admitted he'd fucking... when he admitted he'd slept with someone else while we were hooking up. What else could I ask him to do? What else could I discover that would be better proof that he wasn't... he fucking _communicates_ with me! Not perfectly, but... he fucking... he doesn't need to meet some impossible standard to prove he isn't going to hurt me.

 _I_ need to prove that I'm not going hurt _him._

 _Fuck_!

And I need to prove it to myself. I needed to prove it to myself, because if that's not the case—if I can't be sure that I'm not going to continue hurting Sander with my bullshit—then I needed to... to leave. Fucking... set him free.

Because I'm the fucked up one.

And I refuse to be the one who makes him feel like... that.

_Make an effort._

If I can't at least make an effort to match what he's done...

Well then, I think we'll have our answer.

God, what I had to do was so obvious—and I'm such a fucking asshole!

But knowing what I needed to do didn't change the fact that my gut was twisting like a goddamn rollercoaster inside me. Having this realization didn't change how fucking... ashamed I felt. That I was only realizing it _then._ Yeah, that shame was sure as fuck there. Along with the shame about my past, about how fucking... weak and pathetic I've been. Pitiable. I don't want to be fucking pitied, though. And I don't want my fuckups to change how he thinks of me. How anyone thinks of me. How fucking...

Shit. No. I can't let myself get caught in that fucking loop. I can't let myself—

"Hey! Ground control to Major Tom. You good?

Sander was no longer listing restaurant options—who knows how long ago that had happened—and was now looking at me with that familiar, bemused smile. The one he always seemed to have after catching me being too caught up in my own thoughts. Which... I guess happens a bit too often.

And seeing that smile... it helped. Helped with the hurricane of thoughts going through my head. At least a little. At least it helped with my heart. Settled that down.

He has a really nice smile.

"You already made that joke yesterday," I answered, suddenly wanting nothing more than to make him smile more. Inject some levity before... yeah.

"Because it's an incredible joke," he shrugged, dropping his phone into his lap. "A masterful joke. The kind of joke you tell every time you get the opportunity. Never gets old."

"It's like half a step up from a pun. It's already gotten old."

"Oof," he faked a wince, shifting in his chair so that he was sitting in—what seemed to me to be—the wrongest possible way. "That's really gonna suck for you, then. 'Cause now I can never stop using it. Now my pride's on the line."

"Well, fuck."

His smile was playful as I shook my head, and a few seconds later he was back to looking at his phone, scrolling through the list of restaurants he had apparently already read through.

"All right, well that was pretty much everything if we don't want to drive. Any of those sound good?"

Of course, despite his now-expectant look, I had no real way to answer. I'm pretty sure I'd zoned out before he'd even started reading.

"Ah..."

"Or were you too lost in thought to pay attention?"

"Ah, that one," I answered, sheepishly. "Sorry, I was distracted. Just... thinking."

A moment of quiet passed as Sander scrolled back up to the start of the list. Just long enough to allow for what felt like a very calculated attempt at nonchalance.

"What about?"

And that's when I felt my throat stick—before I could dismiss it, and say it was nothing, and that we would talk about it later.

Because... I knew what I needed to do. I needed to prove myself.

And we were alone.

And we had time.

And we were together.

And I had no idea when another opportunity was going to present itself like this.

And I just needed to _do _it.__

____

Despite the voice in my head yelling at me to wait. Until after dinner. Until after some drinks. Until right before I left tomorrow. Despite the voice telling me that this was not, actually, the opportunity I wanted, I swallowed it down. Swallowed it down with the lump in my throat. Cleared it out with a cough.

I was going to prove myself.

"About us."

Another moment of silence passed. Though, this one felt a lot less calculated. I can't really say for sure. Mostly because I couldn't bring myself to look at up from my phone. Not until I heard Sander shift in his chair, and—presumably—turn to face me like a normally sitting human.

"Do you want to... talk about it?"

And then I forced myself to look up. At him. And take in the nerves, and the practiced calm that I could see was hiding them. Take in the fingers that almost immediately started drumming on the case of his phone. And take in the guy who had proven himself so many times already.

Now it was my turn.

"Yeah," I nodded, and tried to offer the softest smile my nerves would allow. "I really would."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I got a chapter out in faster than a month! Maybe that's because I'm really excited to get to the next part of this story. Or maybe I'm just improving as an author. Idk. What do you think? About Robbe's panic, or his conversation with his Mom, or... any part of it. Let me know! I love discussing with readers!


	17. Juniper and Gin: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe and Sander have a talk. I wonder where it could lead...

_"Are you cheating on me?"_

_It was the question that brought it all to an end._

_It was the question that I'd been sitting on for months._

_Months where David's touch—and dick—had been largely absent from my life, except in ways that felt obligatory. Months where I was long past reaching the point of feeling undesirable—months where I'd become the master of finding something to detest about everything I saw in the mirror. I was too skinny. Too lanky. My face was too sharp, my hair was too messy. Months where I did everything I could to address the things I knew David didn't like. I made sure there was never any body hair for him to make a comment about. Made sure every part of me smelled as fresh as a spring field. Made sure I wore the form-fitting shirts and tight pants that he said looked much better, much more mature, much sexier than my loose t-shirts and grungy jackets._

_It didn't matter._

_And it's not like I'd expected it to stay like had been at the beginning. The honeymoon period. When it wasn't unusual for us to fuck three times in a weekend. But it was like his libido had fallen off the face of the fucking earth._

_And I missed it, okay? Call me a fucking slut, or whatever, but I missed sex. I missed how fucking good it felt. I missed that stupid, narcissistic pride that came from knowing I could make someone as sexy as David hard as a fucking rock. And I missed all the stuff that came after—the cuddling, the sweet talk, the soft kisses and jokes and compliments. It felt like shit, knowing I couldn't earn that anymore._

_And, I don't know. Maybe I could have handled it if it was just sex. I'd gone most of my life with just my hand—between that and maybe some toys I could probably survive._

_I didn't need to feel sexy to live. Not as long as we were happy, right?_

_But it wasn't just sex. We didn't go out on dates. We didn't hang out with friends. Even finding an apartment to live in together was handled more like a business transaction than the first step of our post-college life._

_And so, for months, the questions had been growing in the back of my head. Getting louder._

_But I didn't want to ask. I couldn't ask. Because..._

_Instead of asking, I tried... well, I guess I tried fixing things. Without ever really identifying what was broken. In case things had gotten too predictable, I tried to surprise him. With gifts that would get a cursory thanks before being stashed in a drawer. With dates that would have long stretches of silence and more booze than food. Or that would just... be declined. Because he was too tired from work. In case I was too distant, too quiet, I tried doing things to make him feel appreciated. In case I was smothering him, I tried giving him more space. Never questioned when he wanted to hang out with his friends, or had to work late, or just wanted to do something without me._

_Nothing changed._

_No, that's not true. Things got worse. The questions got louder. Every time he sighed, and looked at me. Disappointed. Like I just didn't get it. Every time I went to bed horny and unwanted, it got louder. Every time I spent hours of time, or half my paycheck on something for him and didn't even get a smile, it got more insistent._

_Am I not sexy enough? Am I not engaging enough? Clever enough? Fun enough? Smart enough? Good enough?_

_Am I not enough?_

_It was months of those questions barrelling through my head every time I failed to fix what was clearly broken. Months of wondering what the point was and then reminding myself that David was worth it. Because he was attractive and successful and could make me feel so fucking good. And because he was the first guy, the only guy, to ever show any real, long-term interest in me. Because he might be the only guy to ever want me. Because..._

_Because if the answer was what I knew it would be..._

_I knew it was my fault._

_And I couldn't handle hearing that._

_So I sat there, for months. And I tried for months. And I stayed quiet for months._

_Until the question didn't even need to be asked anymore._

_I mean, "Are you cheating on me?" is a pretty dumb question to ask when you go to surprise your boyfriend at the end of his shift, only to find him getting a blowjob from a twink in the back alley._

_Right?_

_But I asked it anyway. And that's what brought it all to an end._

_I was too surprised to listen to the voice in my head telling me to walk away, to forget what I saw, to find a way to fix it. Part of me still wonders if I could have fixed it. But I was caught off guard, and I asked the question. Out loud. My voice almost failing halfway through the words, but I forced it out. And David when finally opened his eyes and saw me standing there, struck-still and suddenly desperate for an answer, he..._

_Seeing the other guy jump up and sprint away without a word might have been funny if not for the fact that I felt like my heart was plummeting through the ground. Later, when I was drunk and almost crying on Milan's couch, I tried to force myself to laugh at the image of David casually shoving his dick back into his khakis. But even then, blood filled to the tipping point with wine and vodka, I couldn't do it. Couldn't even chuckle. Because, looking back, it was so clear that he wasn't even in a hurry. Wasn't even trying to hide it._

_Is it sad—no, it's definitely sad—that I desperately wanted him to say it wasn't what I thought? That I was confused? I wanted him to be embarrassed, or scared—I wanted him to act like this was the first time. I wanted him to try to fix things._

_I wanted to be worth fixing things for._

_"Are you cheating on me?"_

_"Yeah, Robbe. I think that's pretty obvious at this point."_

_He didn't apologize. Didn't beg for forgiveness. He didn't offer to explain. So I don't know exactly how long it had been going on. In the booze-stained days that followed, I tried to calculate it. To see just how big of an idiot I'd been. And based on when our sex life took a nose-dive, I figured it was around six months._

_Six fucking months._

_Six months where I trusted him. Where I knew something was wrong, and wanted so badly to fix it, and he just... watched me struggle. He could've ended it. I still don't know why he didn't end it. Why he let me cook dinner for our two-year anniversary. Why he went apartment shopping with me, and let me plan for our life together after graduation. Why he let me try so hard, and let me convince myself that I could make things better. Let me make a fool of myself for six goddamn months._

_And then after six months, I asked the question. And I got the answer. And then it was over._

_"I think we should start seeing other people."_

_I wish I could say I was the one to say that. As far as anyone else—Milan, Jens, Noor—knows, I fucking screamed it at him. But that wasn't me. That was the last thing David said to me before he walked back into work, still tucking his shirt back into his pants._

_The signs were there. I should have acknowledged them. Listened to myself. Actually acted like an intelligent person with a goddamn brain._

_And I never want to... I can't..._

_I can't go through that again._

++++++++++++++++++++++

"Do you still want to be my boyfriend?"

That wasn't a question I'd been sitting on for very long. Maybe it was conceited, thinking that I could go weeks with nothing changing. But up until the previous night, it wasn't something I'd been worried about. And then I had that... chat. With Senne. And then it was. A very pressing question, suddenly loud and clear in my mind. 

And I knew the answer might be 'No.'

I knew there was a chance he hadn't really thought about it since he asked me. A month-and-a-half prior. I knew that asking the question was inviting him to think about it. Meditate on it. I knew that asking the question was essentially me saying, 'I know there are reasons you might have changed your mind. Have you really thought about that? Do you really still want this with what you know now?'

I knew that asking the question might be the end of this whole thing.

And I was... really fucking scared. Okay? But I had to do it. Otherwise... otherwise, I was about to lose myself in something that was always going to fail.

Sander was still sitting on the couch. Facing me as I sat up as tall as I could in the love seat. I had tucked my phone under my leg, and Sander had set his on the coffee table, and so there was nothing to distract us from looking at each other. An emotionally safe two meters apart, just in case the answer was—

"Yeah," Sander nodded. A soft, hesitant smile as he responded like the question hadn't been at all necessary. 

And then, before I could work up the courage to ask 'Why?'—ask how I could possibly be worth it—he followed up with a question of his own.

"Do you want to be my boyfriend, Robbe?"

God, how could he still sound so fucking confident?

Fuck him.

"Yeah. I do."

Holy shit, I actually said that.

"Well shit," From my still-safe spot in the love seat I watched his smile grow even larger. Much less hesitant. "Then I guess we both have our answer."

And maybe I should have just left it at that. Shit, I know part of me wanted to. But even after hearing those words, saying those words there was still part of me that was freaking out—scared of the same thing it had been scared of for weeks. And that was keeping me from returning the smile as... energetically as I wanted to. Because—fuck—yeah, of course I wanted to be in a relationship with Sander. But I didn't stop me from thinking...

I needed to...

"I just," I lifted my hand slightly to signal Sander not to stand. Which he had clearly been about to do. Clearly been about to make his way over to me and... probably do something very fucking sweet. But I needed to stop that before... "Before we, ah, celebrate... I think I owe you an explanation."

I watched Sander pause, his smile faltering a bit, before settling back onto the couch. "You really don't. It's okay"

I felt like he was giving me a second chance. To just... bury this whole thing down. It was just... too bad I couldn't take it.

"Then I _need_ to give you an explanation," I tried again, doing my best to ride that line between forceful but not too much. "Sorry."

And I was. Sorry.

"No," Sander leaned back, still smiling but looking a little more bemused. A little more confused. Which, well... I guess that makes sense, "it's cool. Who _wouldn't_ want to hear all the reasons you didn't want to be their boyfriend."

"No—I..." I felt a bit of the energy run out of my shoulders. "It's not you."

" _It's not you, it's me_? Damn IJzermans, you really know how to set the mood."

Jesus! Sarcastic dick. Couldn't he tell I was trying to—

"Alright," I looked up to fix him with a glare. "Can you just let me talk now, asshole?"

"Fine," Sander shrugged, "but then I get to make a joke about telling you, 'I need some space,' on our first anniversary."

"Fuck you." And then when he just smiled at me, seemingly nonplussed, I decided not to give him another chance to interrupt me. "My last boyfriend cheated on me."

And—God—if the situation were just a little different, I would absolutely cherish the memory of that semi-cocky smile of his dropping like that.

"He was an asshole. But I did everything I could to try to make it work. And he cheated on me for months before I found out."

I paused for a moment as I watched a complicated sequence of emotions flash and tumble across Sander's face. Pity. Sorrow. Frustration. Maybe some anger. I'm not sure I picked up on all of them. I'm not sure they were all good. I'm not sure I'd said this all in the best possible way.

For some reason, I felt like I was actively destroying the way he thought of me.

"Is that... do you think I'm gonna cheat on you? Robbe—What, because it's long-distance? You don't think you can trust me?"

He didn't sound... angry. But I could tell he was offended. And I couldn't really blame him.

Fuck, I really do know how to ruin the mood.

"No, that's..." I sighed, only realizing from of the hurt in Sander's eyes that I was going about this completely the wrong way. "That's not—I shouldn't have said it like that."

"So, you don't think I'm going to cheat on you?"

"No!" found my voice on the verge of yelling, found myself feeling pretty frustrated. Mostly with myself. And a little bit with Sander—look I know I wasn't being crystal-clear, but couldn't he, like, magically get what I was trying to tell him? "That's not what I'm trying to say!"

"Then what are you trying to say!"

Fuck!

What _was_ I trying to say? It's not like I'd brought up David because I seriously thought Sander was going to... to be another him. They were similar in some ways, yeah, but if that was truly the case then I would definitely not be willing to date him. No, it's not that I thought our pending relationship would include another _David_.

It's that I _knew_ it was going to—once again—include _me_.

"I'm trying to say... shit! I'm trying to say that if I wasn't enough for someone who could see me and have me in his life every day—whenever he wanted—then I'm scared there's no fucking way I could ever be enough for you to want to maintain a long-distance relationship with. And that you're gonna realize that eventually. And there's nothing I'll be able to do to fix it."

And... yeah.

There it is.

"Robbe—"

"No, wait, I just—just let me finish. Please." He'd started shifting closer to me, but he paused halfway onto the other cushion, and, after a moment—what felt like a very long moment—he nodded.

"Okay."

"Alright," I nodded in return. And then I paused because... well honestly this had gotten a lot farther in than I'd been able to plan. And I needed to figure out what it was that I wanted to say. Because clearly when I improvised, things didn't always come out... right. And it took a moment of silence to organize the words in my head. "It's not just that. It's also... I don't want to hurt you. I'm pretty sure I've _already_ hurt you because I'm scared. And I don't want to do that again. And I really... I really don't want to do that."

I glanced up from my hands and saw that Sander looked ready to interrupt again, but he stayed quiet. Which—I hope that wasn't a bad thing.

"Look—I... I know this is a really morbid and... and a weird-as-fuck way to start a relationship. I get that. But..." I couldn't help laughing a little bit at how ridiculous I sounded. But I needed to power through this before his desire to stop me grew to strong. "I need you to promise me something. Okay? I need you to promise that if you ever change your mind, or realize that it's not working—that _we're_ not working—or... Just promise that you'll tell me. That you won't just let it linger until it's too late."

For a moment, Sander just let out a long breath. A long sigh. Staring at a point in space about a foot in front of my left knee. Then, once the air from his lungs was depleted and a long enough silence had passed that I was getting ready to go pack my bags, he looked up. Meeting my eyes.

"Damn. You really weren't kidding with the whole 'morbid' thing, were you?" I felt my stomach twist as he settled back on the couch. As he leaned a little bit away from me. _Fuck_. "Can't say I've ever started a relationship by planning for its end, before." 

And he was right, of course. I knew this was simultaneously a simple and very complicated request. On the one hand, he could easily just say it. Make the promise. But on the other hand, it wasn't that different from that movie where the girl tells the guy not to get too attached. Because she has cancer. And I don't even have cancer—just a very fucked up brain.

I almost felt like I was insulting him. I probably _was_ insulting him. Again. Shit. Truly, this was the best possible way to start a relationship.

Oh my God, I'm such a fucking disaster.

"And what if I don't change my mind—?"

"Sander, please." I hated stopping him, but he had that look on his face like he was going to try to make light of the situation. Tell a joke, something like that. And I just... I needed that not to happen.

It took a moment before he continued.

"So that's what you need? A promise?"

I nodded; a short, almost jagged movement. Because I did. I needed it.

"If you promise me, then I'll believe you," I replied, hoping more than anything that I was telling the truth. That his word would be enough to keep me from sabotaging things. That it would be enough to fill in for the emotional safety that came with being 'casual.'

Please. Please don't be too insulted. Please don't be scared off. Please, just...

"Okay." He leaned forward, offering a hand to the space between us. "But only if you promise me something as well."

And I...

I'll admit, I was a little too floored by the first part of that response to realize he was waiting for my answer. Because...

He said it so _easily_...

"That... seems fair." I nodded, trying not to let myself sound as confused or excited or nervous as I really was. I had to keep all that in. There was still an opportunity for this all to come apart at the seams. "What..."

"Well, since we're being... morbidly proactive." He shrugged quickly, his hand still wavering in the space between us. "I want you to promise that you'll always give me a chance to fix things when they go wrong. If things get tough, or something happens—promise you'll give me a chance to make it right. That you won't just end things out of nowhere."

I... what?

I... wasn't expecting that.

Nor was I expecting there to be more.

"Because I know I'm a lot," he continued, and I was staring at his face, and I could see just how serious his words were despite his almost-casual tone. "And I know eventually, I'm gonna piss you off, or scare you off, or... I don't know. But something always happens. So. Promise me that when it _does_ , you'll always give me a chance to fix it before you call things off."

And in his eyes, I could see that there was a lot more to what he was asking. And part of me wanted to figure out what was back there—in his past, in his life—that would result in this being his one request. I could tell there was something.

But I would have to find that out later.

Because he was still staring at me, hand held out. Waiting.

And I'd already made him wait way too long.

"I can make that promise." I put as much confidence into my words as I possibly could as I reached out my hand to clasp his.

"Then I guess I can, too," Sander replied. And then we shook—one quick, hurried movement—and that was that.

The deal was sealed. 

And already, Sander was smiling again. A bright, wide, toothy grin—it was growing on his face like the blooming of the most beautiful fucking flower in the world. And I could feel the tension that been sitting over the room, stifling us for the last few minutes—I could feel it evaporate. In an instant. I felt free and lighter than I had all day, I felt something bubbling in my chest as I saw that smile grow.

"Then I guess you're my boyfriend," I said, just to make sure there was no possibility of questioning what had just happened. For once allowing myself to sound just as happy as I was. Which, in case you couldn't guess, was so incredibly fucking happy that I felt like I was literally about to burst. Into tears, or laughter, or just... explode; I'm not sure. But I was definitely about to burst.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

And then before I could say anything else to ruin the moment, he was pulling me onto the couch with him. And I finally exploded—into laughter, thankfully—unable to hold it in any longer as my stomach somersaulted and I landed half on his lap. And, well... kissing Sander can be a thrilling experience regardless of the context. There's a competitiveness to it. He has this ability to make it... all-encompassing. Whether it's a drunken kiss against a hotel wall, or when he's sleepy and half-drunk and just trying to be sweet. It becomes hard to focus on anything other than Sander. The feel of his lips, the citrusy-earthy smell, the...

Sorry. I blabbering. What I mean to say is... that's what it's like to kiss Sander when I _haven't_ just made him incredibly happy by becoming his boyfriend. And now...

It felt like we were dancing, like we were spinning as he pressed into me. Though neither of us was really moving, just sitting on the couch with me awkwardly pulled onto him, I could feel the whole world turning around us. The pressure of his lips on mine, the gentle, insistent pull of his hand on the back of my head. Keeping me there, pressed against him like both of our lives depended on it. And yet, as intense and solid as the kiss was—as much as his lips and tongue were keeping me close, as much as it felt like he would never let me go—I could also feel him laughing. Bursts of joy bubbling out each time he breathed, each time he adjusted his neck so he could kiss me from a different position. I could feel myself melting into him. I could feel myself laughing along with him. Laughing against his nose as pressed kisses to my cheek, my chin, my neck...

_Holy shit..._

Before I could even adjust to the feel of his teeth dragging against my pulse, he was flipping us. In one swift movement, using his strength and my surprise to position me on my back, on the couch, staring up at him, watching him warmly as he caught his breath. Taking advantage of the momentary break to laugh freely as he leaned over me, as he looked down at me with the brightest fucking eyes I have ever seen. It was enough to send a shiver down my spine. It was enough to make joyous laughter bubble out of my throat. It was, as he continued to lean forward until his body and face were hovering just a few inches above mine, _more_ than enough to turn me on.

And I think he could tell.

"So what should we do now?" He asked, all faux-innocence as he pressed his waist down, as he leaned in to peck at my lips and then retreat before I could respond. Fucking tease.

My boyfriend is a fucking tease.

"Still want to grab dinner?"

And I had to laugh. Because how the _fuck_ could he think about dinner at a time like this. When he looked so pretty, using all his strength and all his will power to hover above me and— _fuck_!

I could feel it. He was turned on, too.

So I just laughed. I laughed as I threaded one hand into his hair, and placed the other on his ass, and gave it an experimental squeeze. 

"Dinner can wait."

And then I pulled him down, and met his lips with my own. And I didn't stop kissing, or grinding, or twisting my legs with his until I heard him moaning under his breath. Until I heard him moaning my name.

Or, well, almost my name.

" _Robin..._ "

And, y'know what? In his voice, low and throaty and dripping with sex... it never sounded so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Seventeen chapters in, and they're finally boyfriends. Just think of how many chapters it'll take before I get them to say 'I love you' to each other. Right? 
> 
> Oh yeah. This is definitely not the end. We have a lot more to go. Because this has never just been a story about two guys getting together. This is a story about two guys learning to have a relationship and be together in a world where things aren't perfect. And so, this is just the beginning.
> 
> What did you think? What did you think about Robbe's full backstory with David? What did you think about his confession to Sander, and how Sander handled it?
> 
> What did you think about the promises?
> 
> I'd love to hear your opinions!


	18. Juniper and Gin: Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after their big... agreement? Upgrade? Whatever you want to call it—the day after has arrived. And it's the day that Robbe has to get back on the train, and leave for another corner of the country. And, for the first time ever, that means leaving behind his boyfriend.
> 
> So... that's probably gonna be a thing, isn't it?

I woke up in my boyfriend's arms.

So... you're going to have to give me a minute.

Just give me a minute to relish that experience. The feeling of waking up, Sander's naked skin pressed against my own. The feeling of waking up with him and, for the first time, _not having anything to freak out about_. The feeling of his warm breath puffing against my shoulder, his hip pressed to mine—all while this warm, comfortable, _happy_ rumbling sat where my heart and my gut were supposed to be.

It was a lot to take in.

And I wasn't going to get this every day.

So... y'know. Give me a minute.

+++++++++++++

I woke up a second time to Sander's—my _boyfriend's_ —arm slapping itself across my face, and immediately realized two things:

One: the comforter and bedsheet had both been kicked to the bottom of the bed, and I was _freezing_. And, two: it was now incredibly clear—as I carefully pushed his arm down to my chest and tried to maneuver my leg out from under his—that Sander's default sleeping position is that of a goddamn starfish.

At least where his skin was touching mine, it was warm.

And you want to know the weirdest part of this whole thing?

I still couldn't wipe that dumb smile off my face.

Because I couldn't help feeling that, somehow, everything and nothing had changed all at once. In the best possible way.

Then, as I carefully extracted myself from beneath my sleeping boyfriend and padded onto the cold tile of his bathroom, two more things quickly became clear as well.

We'd never quite made it to dinner the night before—too... distracted—and I was starving. And, it was already nearly eleven. Which meant I had just over five hours before I had to be on a train, heading to City Number 2. Which sort of put a damper on the whole vibe of waking up in my boyfriend's arms. 

But... I mean, we knew this—I knew this—was exactly the sort of thing that was going to happen. We knew it when we shook hands, and we knew it when we fell into bed laughing, and we knew it when we had sex. And it didn't stop us then.

So I refused to let it stop me now.

"Wake up." Sander's discarded underwear made a satisfying thud as I chucked them with perfect accuracy at his head.

Clearly, I just needed to make sure none of the time we had together was wasted. And then it would all be okay.

"Huh?" The bleach blonde bedhead shot up with a start, an arm clumsily coming up to pull the briefs from his face so that his sleep-filled eyes could, eventually, lock onto mine.

 _Fuck_ he's pretty when he wakes up.

"Get up," I said while trying to hold back a grin at the confused look on his face. Even though I'd just woken up myself, I was trying my best to sound like I'd been up for hours. "Day's already half over."

"Come back to bed," the words were half mumbled as Sander's head fell back to the pillow. "M'cold."

"Then put on some damn clothes," I grinned, trying not to waste too much time oggling his naked body—what? He's my boyfriend now, I have full oggling rights. A balled-up shirt flew through the air, landing on his crotch and covering up the most distracting part before I could forget what I was trying to accomplish. "We're going to get lunch. I'm starving."

Finally, with a groan, Sander pushed himself up into a sitting position, scratching lightly at his shoulder as he let out a yawn.

"Don't you mean breakfast?"

"It's practically lunchtime," I answered, pulling on my own jeans before tossing Sander's on the bed next to him. "And I want a burger. And, not to repeat myself, but I'm fucking starving."

"Yeah, but..." there was a pause as Sander clumsily pulled the shirt over his head, somehow looking like he'd never done it himself before. Adorable. "Isn't the first meal of the day always breakfast? No matter what you eat?"

"What? No!" I shook my head, trying not to roll my eyes while Sander very, _very_ slowly put on the rest of his clothes. Not entirely sure if it was him being sleepy or him being annoying. "Breakfast is breakfast. Coffee and waffles and eggs and... You can't have, like, soup and call it breakfast just 'cause it's the first thing you ate that day."

Why were we even arguing about this?

A moment of silence passed as Sander dutifully put on his socks and finally stood from the bed, giving me a momentary hope that food would soon be within reach. Then he turned to me with that goddamn quirky smile of his, and...

"I'm pretty sure cereal counts as a soup."

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Only because you know I'm right."

He tried to offer an innocent smile but I completely ignored it in favor of shoving him back onto the bed, doing my best to place the fear of death in his heart by glaring down at him and pinning his shoulders to the wrinkled sheets. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he seemed perfectly happy to lay there, his smile only growing as I narrowed my glare even more.

"Shut it, before I change my mind about dating you," I tried to sound intimidating, but it was obvious he could hear the smile in my voice.

I'm really... not very intimidating. Especially not when I'm pretending. One day I'll learn that.

"Don't be pissy just because you're losing our first couple's spat, Robin," he smiled up at me.

And I couldn't help it anymore.

So I kissed him. I kissed him until he stopped trying to pretend to resist. I kissed him until I felt him give into it, give into me, until his mouth became too preoccupied with mirroring my moves to be smirking, until I could feel him growing in his unzipped jeans. And then, just when he was really getting into it—

I jumped off, readjusted my own pants, and then headed toward his bedroom door.

"C'mon. If I don't get some goddamn _brunch_ in the next twenty minutes, I can't be held responsible for what's going to happen to you."

"Wha? But..." I watched as Sander's eyes shifted from me down to the still clearly bulging crotch of his pants. With what can only be described as a whine, he pushed himself up to his elbows and looked up at me with what I'm sure were his best puppy dog eyes.

They were very tempting.

"Zip up your pants and get your ass in gear!" 

"Now that's not fair," I watched him grumble, overdramatically. "Who knew my _boyfriend_ was so heartless!" 

"Not heartless. Just hungry," I flashed a smile, feeling incredibly happy that just a few quick, hot minutes of making out could put Sander in such a situation, but absolutely refusing to let that show on my face.

"And cruel."

Finally, Sander _somehow_ achieved the impossible by zipping his pants around his _ginormous_ erection—excuse the sarcasm—and looked up at me with a pout on his face but a smile in his eyes.

"I have five hours before my train," I shook my head before reaching out to grab his hand and pull him toward me. He let me, finally without a fuss, and I ignored the slight sadness the grew in my stomach as I mentioned our time limit. "The faster we get food, the faster we can get back here. And the fast we get back here, the faster we can..."

Well. You know.

"Take advantage of our time together?" The false pout melted into a grin rather quickly and I rolled my eyes. " _Promise?_ "

"Yeah." I nodded, ignoring the feeling of my cheeks flushing. "I promise."

+++++++++++++

"So, what did you say you're doing tonight?" I asked, carefully folding the work shirts I'd washed in Sander's apartment laundry the day before, and then placing them in my suitcase. "Dinner with your family?"

"Yeah," Sander hummed, glancing up from his phone for just a second before returning his attention quickly to whatever was on the screen. He was once again lounging in bed, shirtless—I'm never one to back down on a promise—though at least this time he'd put his pants back on.

"Any special occasion?" I asked, thinking back to my Mom and our dinners as I switched over to shoving socks into the open corners of the bag. "Or just because?"

Based on our prior conversations, I got the idea that Sander's family was not a 'get together just because' type of family. He'd seemed a little surprised when I told him I had a standing weekly meal with my Mama. 

"One of my cousins graduated. Business school, I think."

"Oh, that's cool. Are you close with your cousins?"

I couldn't actually remember the last time I'd seen my cousin. He was a few years older than me, I think? My uncle was my Dad's brother, so...

Yeah.

"Uh... not really?" Sander shrugged, sounding a bit unsure. "I mean, my Mom's family lives a bit away so we only see them for holidays. Dad's close with his brother though—they probably planned it so my cousin would end up working at my Dad's firm. Oh—Damn, it looks like it's not worth buying the monthly train pass if I'm only going to Antwerp and back twice a month. Man, you really have to travel a ton to make that thing worth it."

With a sigh, his phone was tossed onto the pillow beside him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty much only for people who commute to work. Or, ah... someone with a lot of free time and near-fetishistic love of trains, I guess."

"Like you?" He grinned, pushing himself up off the bed to finally find a shirt. "The commuting, obviously. Although..."

"No! And fuck you—I mean, like, the poor fuckers who ride to work and then back home every day." I shook my head and barely resisted the urge to throw my carefully folded shirt at his head. The fucked up places his mind could go...

"Oh, oof. Shit. Now _that's_ one of those, uh... hidden benefits of running your own company. No commute. 'Cause that would suck."

"Yeah. Seriously. Honestly, as much as waking up early sucks ass, thank God my job requires us to be in the lab at seven and to potentially work late. If it was all standardized working hours, they'd probably force us to do daily commutes just to save money on hotels."

The nightmare vision of the universe where I had to sit on a train and commute for hours every day made me shiver in disgust. That poor, poor Robbe.

"Oh no! And then you never would have met me!" Sander crooned, sounding falsely morose. "How horrible."

"Yeah," I shook myself from my imagination and rolled my eyes. "Clearly that would be the worst part of that scenario."

"How sad for you."

I smiled, and went back to packing, and did my best not to let on that we'd stumbled onto one subject that I tried not to include in my multiverse-based thoughts. No, not the potential crappier or better jobs. I thought about those all the time—I often consoled myself with the thought that I was probably about average across in terms of Robbe-job-crappiness levels. I mean the whole... meeting Sander thing. It didn't take a genius to come up with a bunch of universes where we surely didn't meet. Where we surely never would. I mean, I wasn't going to freak myself out by calculating the chances—that he would randomly see me, on a random night, when we had no reason to even be in the same place—but it was surely a rare occurrence throughout the universes. 

There were a lot of things that weren't perfect about the way Sander and I met, but—for the moment, at least—I didn't want to think about the scenarios where we never did.

"I'm sure I'd survive. Somehow," I muttered, letting my voice drip with sarcasm as I returned to packing my bag. 

"Well," Sander's voice, suddenly whispered behind me, accompanied the surprise sensation of warm arms wrapping around my chest, "at least you don't have to worry about that."

For the moment, I just let myself sink into the feeling of his chest pressed against my back, the squeeze of his arms and his chin on my shoulder. It felt... well, nice, obviously.

But my train was leaving in forty minutes and this whole packing thing was already taking longer than expected. And as much as I wanted to just sink back into the bed and cuddle up with my new boyfriend...

I shifted my head enough to press a kiss to his cheek before pointing to the floor beside me. "Could you help me fold my pants?"

"Y'know," with one final squeeze, Sander's arms dropped from around me and he stooped to hand me a pair of work pants, "I never pegged you as the type of guy who folds his clothes in a suitcase."

"I'm not," I shook my head, carefully folding the khakis and then slotting the bundle next to the shirts and on top of my socks. "But all the higher-ups I work with are super, ah... critical about shit like wrinkled clothes, or—God forbid—a stain on your shirt. My first week traveling, my manager made me go out and buy a portable steamer thingy. Said I had to get rid of the wrinkles on my shirts if I ever wanted the heads of the labs to give me any respect."

"Oh, yeah," I watched Sander shake his head as he did an acceptable job of folding the pants he was holding, "that bullshit. Yeah, I have to deal with that when we meet with people from the city, or museum directors and all of them. Zoë got _so_ pissed when I showed up to our first meeting with the Mayor in a leather jacket and a t-shirt."

"I was gonna say," I said as I glanced over at his open closet, the pile of dirty clothes on the floor almost distracting from the line of _very_ nice looking shirts and sweaters sitting neatly on hangers up above. "I assume she's the reason you have three suits that cost more than my monthly salary?"

"Well," Sander shrugged, kneeling down to grab what turned out to be my 'sexy' underwear and looking up at me with a grin and salaciously raised eyebrows. "She may be the reason I have suits but I'm the reason they're so expensive. Speaking of—wow! Name brand! How expensive is this little number, and more importantly _why_ haven't I seen you wearing them yet?"

"Give me those!" I lunged unsuccessfully for the tight, electric blue undergarments, but Sander yanked them back from my grasp with ease. And quite a large smile.

"Oh wow, Robbe IJzermans, open back?" I watched, partially mortified—but also secretly excited to see his reaction—as he held up the briefs just out of reach, a gleeful smile on his face. With a truly unnecessary flourish, he wiggled his fingers in the obvious lack of fabric that my—or, y'know, _anyone's_ —ass was supposed to fill. "Someone had plans for this weekend."

"It was supposed to be a surprise—" and it would have been a damn good one if we hadn't gotten so distracted the previous night, "—which you have now ruined, thank you very much." I lunged forward once again, only to have Sander snatch them out of my reach again. "Sander, c'mon. I need to finish packing."

I mean, as funny as this was, they really actually were expensive. Like... depressingly so. And I even got them on sale...

"Nuh-uh. I think you should leave these babies here with me," he smirked. "Give you a reason to come back."

"Oh, right. You just want to try them on yourself, don't you?"

"As if you wouldn't kill to see me model these bad boys."

Oh. Great. Just like that, with that simple sentence, pretty much the only thing my brain was capable of processing was the image of Sander wearing my sexy underwear and absolutely nothing else. And it was... 

"I wouldn't be opposed."

"Then leave them here," he said with a surprisingly innocent grin. "I have plenty of space in my closet, I'd be happy to store these, and any other... _adult_ items for you. Perfectly private. I promise Senne knows better than to go snooping through my stuff."

"Won't need too much space," I lowered myself to the ground next to him, surprised to find I was actually planning on agreeing to this offer. I mean, it's not like I was planning on wearing them when I was at home, right?

"Hmm?"

"That's pretty much the only, ah, 'adult'-type garment that I own. Unless you count the socks with penises that Aaron bought me as a gag gift. Or the edible underwear that, uh... that Aaron bought me as a gag gift."

"Do your friends often buy gag gifts from a sex shop? Or do I just need to be worried about this Aaron guy?"

"Y'know, I'm starting to wonder that myself," I laughed shaking my head at how much of a dumbass my friend was. Where even were those edible underwear? Probably melted into the corner of my dresser by now.

"Well, it doesn't have to be, y'know... 'adult' stuff." Sander shrugged, smile slowly softening. "Like I said, my closet's got plenty of space. If you ever wanna, I dunno... make packing easier. Or something."

And...

"Oh," I sounded maybe more surprised than I meant to.

But... it was a bit of a surprise. Sort of.

Okay. It's not that what Sander was saying didn't make sense. It's just... I think this was something I probably _should_ have expected but actually hadn't _really_ thought about with how our weird extended, uh... courtship might affect things. Specifically, timeline-related, relationship things. Because, ostensibly, unless I was severely misunderstanding my boyfriend, he was offering to let me keep a set of clothes at his apartment. Which, again, unless I was misunderstanding, made sense. Because—even if we hadn't said so specifically—I was probably going to be spending nearly a full week every month, y'know, _sleeping_ at said apartment. But, like I also said, we hadn't exactly established that that was the plan. Just like we hadn't exactly established that Sander would stay with me when he came to Antwerp.

But I assumed he would. And I'm pretty sure he assumed he would. And none of that felt strange. And I'm pretty sure there were a few of these... unestablished, probably-mutual assumptions between the two of us. Because even if our relationship was less than 24 hours old, we had known each other and we had been close and we had been hooking up for well on half a year.

Holy shit. It's been almost half a year.

But the truth is, our relationship _was_ still less than 24 hours old. And that was going to cause situations like this. Because clearing out space in our closets for each other was something that was completely normal—if not overdue—for us to assume in a six-month-old relationship. But, well, it was weird as fuck for one that less than one day old.

And even though it felt right, even though it absolutely made sense, there was still a part of my brain that was struggling with that disconnect. 

And if I had to guess, Sander was probably feeling the exact same thing.

"I mean, not like I'm saying you should leave your whole suitcase here, or anything. Just... so you know."

"Ah... yeah." I nodded. Because honestly, it did make sense. Even if it still felt weird. "Cool."

This was going to be something we were going to have to figure out—and probably on a case by case basis. Whether to treat our relationship like it was already established or brand new. 

But, like I said. This one made sense. So this one was easy.

Just gonna have to hope the next one is, too.

"I'll bring some extra clothes next week." I nodded and offered the surest, most comforting smile I could muster.

"Yeah?" I watched Sander brighten up and then quickly grow back into his almost-cocky smirk. "Well, don't bring too much. It's not _that_ much space."

"Yeah, Sander, I've seen just how many leather jackets you have." I scoffed, standing back up to finish the severely delayed process of packing. "I think you'll be able to make room."

"Well," Sander grinned, once again holding the underwear like they were some sort of precious gift. "I can definitely make room for these. They're just so damn _small_."

"Yeah, yeah." I shook my head. "Fine, you can keep them here. But I expect pictures of you modeling those, yeah? Multiple pictures. Lots of different angles, too."

With a grunt, Sander pushed himself back to standing, and passed with a quick kiss on the back of my head as he went to put his newfound plunder in his—our?—closet. 

"Whatever you say, _Robin_."

And, y'know, pet names are another one of those things we didn't discuss—pet name _selection_ was definitely not something I'd been asked my opinion on—but... well, this one worked too. Right?

Maybe I'm just... more fond of hearing him call me that than I want to admit.

Who knows?

"You got that right."

Now I just needed to figure out a pet name for _him_.

+++++++++++++++++

"You're sure you have to go?"

Over the last twenty-or-so minutes, Sander's grip on my hand had only grown tighter. Not even the necessities of driving had been enough to get him to let go, much less loosen the way his fingers were squeezing mine.

And now that we were parked, and my train was only a few minutes away from departing, he was looking at me over his car's center console a joking smile and... surprisingly somber look in his eyes. And I'm pretty sure his eyes were the ones telling the truth.

Fuck.

"My parents probably won't even realize if I skip dinner. We could grab something quick, you could catch the next train..."

Just because we both knew this was going to happen, didn't make it any easier. But... I think Sander might have been taking it even harder than me. 

Fuck!

"This is the last train going West today." I breathed in, trying my best not to act like this was any reason to feel sad. Because I didn't want to feed into the sadness in his eyes. "And you shouldn't skip dinner with your parents, anyway."

"Fuck."

That was his only response as the car fell silent. He didn't even have any music playing. The entire drive to the station had been surprisingly, weirdly quiet. Just us chatting, like two brand-new boyfriends are wont to do, both trying our best not to act like there was anything to be sad about.

"So I'll see you in a week?" I offered, the best consolation I could come with because nothing else seemed... appropriate. 

"As if you're not going to FaceTime me every night—don't act like you won't be desperate to see this pretty face," Sander joked, but I could tell his heart just wasn't fully in it.

"How else am I supposed to see you model those undies?" I smiled, and it exactly wasn't forced—because I was definitely looking forward to that—but I couldn't fully ignore the slight sadness of the situation we were about to enter.

But it was a situation we both knew was going to happen. So we were just going to have to... deal with it. Until I made my way back to City Number 3 next Sunday.

"You know I'm going to make you wear them as soon as you get back," he hummed, squeezing my hand again.

"We'll have a whole week to test them out together," I grinned, finally leaning over to press a quick kiss to his lips, and then—when he followed my retreating lips—to his forehead.

I hated that it was even something I was thinking about, but I really was about to miss my train. Fuck, I just wanted to spend another night with him. With my boyfriend. With Sander. This was the fucking worst!

"Promise?"

"Promise." 

I nodded. And again. It was a week. And then we'd have a whole week together, and then he'd come up to visit me the next two weekends, and then...

I mean, that's not even all that much time apart. Right? Jens has dated at least three girls that he only ever saw on weekends, so we're already going to be beating that. There's absolutely no reason to think that we wouldn't be able to make this work.

Right?

"You ready? You got everything?" Sander asked, finally, giving my hand one last squeeze before slowly pulling his fingers away. It was maybe half a second before I realized I missed the warmth.

"Yeah," I nodded. Flashing the strongest, brightest smile I could muster, I reached down to grab my backpack. "We got this."

"Yeah," Sander nodded, fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the steering wheel. "We totally got this."

Yeah.

We do.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. 
> 
> That... that one took a bit longer than expected, didn't it?
> 
> I don't even really have an excuse. I know a few of you have been missing the story, and I know I've been making you wait increasingly long times between chapters, and I'm sorry. I just haven't really been in the writing mood. But—and I know I say this every time, but it's true—the story isn't over and I'm not abandoning it. I'm just slow. And life is busy. 
> 
> But things are good. I'm fine. There's no need to worry. Just busy, and distracted, and having more and more trouble finding the time and energy to write.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this first chapter of boyfriend-Robbe-and-Sander was worth the wait! And I hope you're all doing well. You and all your messages and comments and kudos have been amazing motivators even when I haven't been in the mood to get words on the page.
> 
> So thanks! And I hope you enjoy!


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